Good Company
by Mr. Snarks
Summary: As it would happen, a go-lucky traveling mage from High Rock, a trio of honest mercenaries, a naive Khajiit girl with aspirations of glory, and a female orc desperate to see the world DO have something in common: They all seek the same bounty. This is the collection of their stories, and that of the rogue who binds them together.
1. Chapter 1

Caliir ran through the forested darkness with a rugged swiftness. Every tangled grove of vines, every cluster of tree trunks and every gnarled root was dodged, juked and sidestepped, his feet as silent as they could be while steel-clad in cuffed boots. They were caked in mud and the bright insides of berries, as was the rest of him. His thick dark hair was growing increasingly frizzled and wild with sweat, drooping farther over his squinted eyes. The elf kept his mouth tightly shut to avoid swallowing an insect or any of the other distasteful items that were crashing into his face. Sweat chaffed and prickled his skin beneath his armor. Parts of him stung as his moved, the perspiration seeping into open cuts and abrasions.

"_And in the _rain_…"_ he groaned in his head.

Cal's teeth ground together behind pursed lips as he prayed silently that the others were advancing with better luck than he.

Bosmer children learn very early how to swiftly navigate a dense forest and Caliir was no exception; he just wished they didn't have to. As far as ancestral advantages went, he was not playing to his strengths. His parents never had fifty-odd pounds of gear to slow them down and rub them raw. Cal hoped he could fight off the soreness in his muscles when it came time to finally draw blades. He also hoped that he was not the last to arrive. If he was to brave the entirety of this bog-like woods, then he would at least return with a few new notches to his breastplate.

The nimble elf vaulted over a massive collapsed tree and put all of his strength into a jump over a small ledge, about eight feet downward to a small river. He did not break stride, rolling over his shoulder upon impact on the far bank and coming up running, silently striding farther into the brush, arms thrusting crisply at his sides, ready to grip his sword once again.

* * *

Varinn was growing too old for this kind of work.

The seasoned Nord warrior had no memory of a simple run being so exhausting. He had to halt his partner for a moment to catch his breath, leaning on a tree, his greatsword feeling infinitely heavier than it had ten years ago. He bore the look of his fatigue as well; face splattered in mud, skin dappled with sweat, eyes haggard and armor dirtied beyond recognition. Somewhere a while back he'd also sprained his ankle, a petty but persistent injury he was loath to disclose to his current companion, a young kinsman who couldn't keep a straight face about anything, even if you wagered a sack full of septims on it. Needless to say, the boy gave Varinn a sarcastic pat on the back as he took a knee beside him.

"S'matter, old wolf? The rainfall got you feeling sorry for yourself?" Roki asked. His carefree tone, which was partially touched by their traditional accent, matched his sturdy but youthful face and puppy eyes. His sandy hair, which was modest and feathered, was loosely tied in the back with a leather strip, it and the rest of him just as filthy as Varinn but none of his disdain showing through. That parallel could have described this whole situation perfectly.

Varinn grunted and did his best to effortlessly stand, or at least to make it _look_ effortless, "Kepp talking, youngling..." Roki rose with him and Varinn was about to set out again when a hand on his shoulder plate halted him.

"Just be glad you have a healthy pair of eyes to shepherd you!" Roki said, chuckling.

Varinn looked ahead to see that they were, indeed, standing on the edge of the river, which thundered away about fifty feet below. The bridge that _should_ have led the two inside their destination was retracted, standing up to eclipse the moon, mocking them with its proximity.

The two just stood there a moment, contemplating their options. The river below was barely heard over the storm that did little to make things more comfortable.

Roki made a face like he'd just been told a bad joke, hand rising up to point before turning, "That's not part of the plan, is—"

"No, no it's not," Varinn interjected, kneeling down submissively and wiping his face, "They must have retracted the bridge, anticipated some kind of retaliation."

"I can see a clear path on Cal's side," Roki stated, hands on his hips.

The older Nord sighed and gazed at the looming obelisk of the tower, "Let's hope the elf is as quick thinking as he is on his feet."

Moments later, they had a "solution."

"This had better work, or we're in for a long detour." Varinn warned as he watched Roki knead an orb of flames in his palms, slowly stirring the arcane energies to life for his bidding.

"If it doesn't work then we'll be short a man soon enough." Roki answered grimly without the slightest air of reassurance. He saw the frank look Varinn gave him clearly in the dark.

"Of course it will work," he amended, eying the mechanism that had retracted the bridge, "But don't waste any time getting to the other side."

"Agreed."

Varinn rose and steadily drew his greatsword, just the motion being enough to renew his stores. "Just you wait, old girl," he thought, hefting the blade and hunching over, his body rhythmically shifting in preparation.

Roki focused on his target, raised his hand and willed the fireball forward. A tail of vapor snaked its way to the base of the bridge which ignited in a steaming blast of ember and steam, soundless on their end. They waited in silence as the massive obelisk of wood creaked and began to descend.

Both Varinn and Roki glanced at each other before taking a few cautionary steps back.

"Hope that thing is sturdy..." Varinn thought. Roki gave him the same look he'd received earlier.

It crashed down just a few feet away. They'd expected a deafening report and the scattering of birds, or at least a small landslide. But all they were given, thankfully, was a spray of mud and murky groundwater, re-coating them in a thin layer of earth. Their hair was blasted back and Roki spit a few bits of dirt from his lips. The edge of the bridge was instantly buried several inches into the ground, the storm masking the sound but definitely not the deed.

Retribution was swift on the bandit's end. Several arrows were loosed in their direction, all of them passing harmlessly by the two Nords as they both rushed forward onto the walkway.

The weather was finally on their side, the poor visibility and unpredictable wind deterring the archers' eyes. The rainfall clattered loudly into their thick armor plates like so many pebbles tossed at a statue. Roki set the pace in front of Varinn, erecting a vibrant modified ward spell in front of them. The hostile arrows were easily batted out of the air by the battlemage, the broken shafts spiraling every which way.

There were two archers by Varinn's count, judging from the consistency of their volleys. A tiny shape would appear in the hazy distance and then suddenly another bolt was deflected by the young Nord's enchanted hands. Varinn could see the tendons and muscles in the mage's arm flaring with each swipe.

Varinn balanced his weapon's blade on his right shoulder as he charged headlong. He was ready to slice this entire tower in two. Of course, though, Roki got first strike.

The pine door ahead that would grant them a supposedly hard-won entrance was thrust open and three hulking highwaymen stormed out, just in time for the return volley.

This they had practiced. Roki punched forward and a wicked bolt of lightning shot ahead and caught the first bandit in the chest, sapping his strength, inflicting pain and immobilizing him. Roki kicked him in the chest, sending him off the bridge.

With fluid movement Roki ducked, making way for his friend at his back, who stepped readily in his place, blade already in mid-swing, right as the second bandit became conscious of the situation. Varinn's greatsword cut horizontally through its victim's body like a hot knife through butter. Bone and organ were pierced with equal ease and quickly another body hit the ground and tumbled away, halved. Another warm red spray flew to the side and across Varinn's face, his dark eyes wild and fiery, his blade towering over him.

With one enemy left standing, and sheer momentum carrying Varinn into a full spin, and he beheaded the third member of the welcoming party. They'd made their entrance.

They had little time to inhale or congratulate each other on what was honestly a flashy and impractical maneuver, as what must have been one of the archers appeared at the head of the stairs to Roki's immediate left, bow already drawn. Roki pulled the nearest body in front of him with a grunt. Before he could blink an arrow burst through the dead man's torso, thick blood flying into the mage's face. He squinted and pushed the meat shield aside, focusing a ball of flame into his hands and firing at his attacker, cloaking the archer in flames. It had been female from the sounds of the dying screams. She was ashes and bone in less than five bats of an eye. The smoky fragments of her armor and weapons clattered down the staircase.

Another bandit entered the room across from Roki and he zapped his skull with a lethal bolt of lightning, dropping him like a sack of crops.

"Well done Roki, but I smell more on the floors above us. Find another weapon, a _real_ weapon." Varinn ordered as he entered. He took a moment to shake his face and hair free of moisture, wiping blood from his face.

Roki shushed him, holding up his hand and making a face like he was listening.

"I think Caliir has finally arrived."

* * *

"_There's stupid, there's 'all-or-nothing,' and then there's _this_."_

Caliir spun after his very generous backtrack and sprinted off to the edge of the steppe.

The second story window was just a few feet lower than his vantage point, and about ten feet out. It looked like a thick wool tarp had been pinned up over it to keep the weather out. He'd have to go _through_ that, _and_ whatever unlucky sod could have been lounging in behind of it.

His steel-cuffed boots were well-fitted but heavy, not suited for this occasion. The rest of his armor chaffed and tore into his skin. His sword, which he'd temporarily slung to his back, beat against him. The rain flooded into his reddening, swollen eyes, eyes which needed to stay wide open for this to even come close to fruition.

In one last stride he reached the edge and jumped.

The wind seemed to halt for just that moment; he thanked the Divines for that. His arms were held close, hands ready. This shouldn't work but somehow he knew it would, but that part of his mind - the one responsible for confidence - was hiding itself away deep in Caliir's subconscious, leaving plenty of room for the fear mongering. As far as he was concerned, he was about to face-plant either the top or the bottom of the window frame and then break his legs after the way down.

The elf met the window covering which proved to be several lengths of plywood and blanketing. His forearms guarded his face and his knees folded tight. He crashed through the crude barrier with a nasty sound and hit the floor hard.

He rolled over his shoulder and to his feet on instinct, continuing the charge and propelling him into the first figure he registered. The bandit was completely unprepared and felt all the breath seized from his lungs when Caliir drilled him with a heavy tackle at the waist. Both of them spent a few seconds in the air before crashing down against the wall, the bandit's head slamming against the stone wall.

He swiftly drew his sword and came upright in one motion and found himself face-to-face with the onlookers, who traded faces before charging him.

Caliir's blade was one of pure ebony, infinitely dark and sharpened nearly to the atom. It was light and thin, perfectly suited for his fighting style. It rose up once again for another challenge.

His first attacker was a an Imperial clad in thick fur armor, steel gauntlets guarding his forearms, beyond which there was a heavy iron sword. He made to swing wide and wild, and Cal ducked the strike and kicked him hard in the chest, knocking him to the floor. He pivoted to face another attacker. They were both caught in the gray area between surprise and over-anticipation, and they both showed it by striking in the same fashion. The vastly different blades clashed between the pair, so close that Cal could smell the bandit's breath.

The bandit took the initiative and swiped the two blades the right, putting his blade on top, and sliced upward to the elf's face, but Cal leaned back, the fatal edge passing inches from his chin. Cal swung up himself, his blade finding its mark and gouging the man's throat. The bandit spun to the floor, blood spiraling from his neck.

He spun and blocked a shallow mid-level strike, his blade pointing downward, and the elf lunged forward and drove the pommel into the bandit's face, breaking his nose, then slashed down across his neck. The bandit staggered around, his back to Caliir, one hand clutching his seeping wound, and Cal ran his blade through his torso with a grunt, finishing him off. The elf heard a profane shout and then saw the Imperial man, now armed with a shield, charging him.

Cal knew he couldn't engage this one head-on. The heavy shield bash came swiftly and he ripped his blade from its last victim. He didn't have time to get out of the way and was only able to guard himself. The wedge of wood and metal plowed into him and the bandit ran him back, Cal fighting for every inch of space until his back foot found purchase and he halted. The bandit snarled as he pressed into him, raising his hand ax. Cal freed his sword arm from between them and cracked the man's jaw with the pommel. The bandit from earlier made to join in but Cal jumped and kicked him away, then ducked under the man's shield arm and pressed the edge of his sword to his body. Once he was behind him, he yanked the blade away, slicing the bandit open and rolling him to the floor.

The other marauder recovered and engaged him at once. Cal heard two more coming down the stairs. He held his ground, both hands clutching his weapon, eyes darting back and forth, and muttered a small prayer to himself, more out of spite than faith.

He hadn't noticed how large this last man really was until just now, when he was barreling right at him. He was easily a foot-and-a-half taller than Cal and twice his weight in brawny muscle. A bushy blond beard fastened into two braids covered most of his face and a sloppy mohawk topped his head. His greatsword was already powerful enough to split Caliir like a log; with that man wielding it, it was almost a guarantee.

Cal nimbly ducked the first big swing of iron, and cringed when he almost didn't duck the second. He leaned back to avoid a third strike and then the man stepped forward and swung at Cal's legs. Thinking desperately and rashly, Caliir jumped up in a mad scramble to save his limbs, stepped on the bandit's chest with one foot and kicked him in the side of the head with his other. The Nord staggered while Cal landed flat on his chest and quickly recovered. He met the marauder's seething look with one of his own. "_Come_ on!" the elf shouted fiercely, readying himself.

At that point Roki and Varinn arrived after their assault on the bridge, just as another pair of bandits descended the stairs, soaked from the rain. Varinn turned sideways, blocking the first man with his shoulder and then bringing his greatword's pommel upwards into the bandit's jaw. Then he twisted, severing his opponent at the waist. He took advantage of the momentum and spun again, this time slicing the second warrior across the chest, opening him up and planting him face down in his own viscera.

The bandit chief took advantage of Cal's distraction and rushed him, only to be cut off by Varinn. The hulking nord warrior held his blade sideways and charged the chief against the wall with a vicious war cry. Varinn headbutted him before pulling away. He reared back for a swing and the chief brought up his sword to block, and Varinn simply sliced the blade in half, then beheaded the bandit with another mighty roar.

The trio stood there in the damp room, surveying their doings. Blood was thickly pooling on the floor and all three of them were covered in it. Now, Cal was actually _eager_ to venture back out into the storm.

"_Phew!_ Nothing like a battle to get your blood moving!" Roki said breathlessly but excitedly. Being a practitioner of magic, he didn't have as many opportunities to put his swordsmanship to the test like Caliir or Varinn, but when he did Roki always cherished the moment.

"The only thing better than labor…" Cal started with a grin as he began to pat down each of the freshly-slain corpses, "…is the _fruit_ of that labor." Varinn just shook his head.

"You're starting to sound like a cat there, elf," the Nord joked.

Roki began pilfering through the various shelves and cabinets, most likely looking for potions or assorted ingredients or whatever it was that spellcasters found valuable, Cal didn't know. He was a mercenary, he saw value in the simple things; jewelry, rare stones, questionably-brewed poultices, and of course, coin.

* * *

"_So many possibilities,"_ Roki always thought when the time for looting came. No lord's wage could ever feel as deserved as the spoils of a battle; he had _earned_ these Jarrin roots and mountain flowers, he'd shed _blood_ for these cod scales and frost salts.

His personal apothecary satchel was stuffed by this point so now he was just squirreling away any item he found interesting into his rucksack. He was in the process of perfecting a new remedy for partial numbness should he find any Blisterwort toadstools, and should he find anyone willing to partake of a "trial batch." That, and a little herb for the pipe never hurt anyone, but such an amenity was scarce in this country.

"Two minutes Roki, then we leave." Varinn said. Material fancies were lost on him.

"Agreed. The last thing I need right now is a cold." Cal added.

Roki looked over his shoulder after cramming two handfuls of Fly Amanita and Elve's Ear into his pack, "Cal, you're a _wood elf._ And besides, any ailment you run the _very_ slight risk of picking up can be cured effortlessly by yours truly."

"Well, I don't want that, either." Cal mumbled matter-of-factly. So far, he'd hardly managed to fill one pocket with gold and was in an increasingly sour mood– Twenty septims, to be exact. _"Pathetic, broke vermin," _he thought with scorn; how was he to make a living if he could hardly buy food and drink? Repairs alone would run him more than this whole outfit had put together. "Leave it to us to knock over the poorest vandals in the Reach."

Varinn sensed his disdain, "Amren looks an honest man and the bounty he offered will be _more_ than enough to sate your appetite. In the meantime, help me find this damn sword." He finished with an aggravated tone.

"Oh right, we came here for a _reason_, didn't we?" Cal griped as he joined Varinn on the stairs.

Roki halted. "I'll just, you know, keep watch here, yeah?" Roki asserted, eyes batting briefly to the other cupboards and chests that had yet to be ransacked.

Varinn smiled sarcastically, "You are doing a _splendid_ job." He turned, "Come-come, elf."

"This sword of his had better be made of solid Dwemer gold and adorned with _emeralds_, with a handle bound in _stallion's mane_..." Cal muttered to no one in particular as he marched up the stairs.

Roki remained on the second level, scurrying here and there for this and that. He could hear his comrades upstairs stomping around, turning over beds and tables and knocking down shelves and cabinets trying to find Amren's fabled weapon. If his memory served him, Amren's bounty was hovering somewhere around four-hundred septims. That meant a hundred for each of them, and another hundred to keep between them.

"_One-hundred septims,"_ he thought as he pilfered through the drawers of a dresser, _"Just enough to get excited but meek enough to stay reasonable."_

He had been thinking about blowing half- if not _all_- of his payment at a local cauldron, but after today's haul he had no need to. He wasn't much a drinker either, unless on occasion, and tonight's work had been nothing special and warranted no fireside merrymaking, so the tavern was out of the question as well. There was always the general store, but nothing had really caught his eye in there as of late and he wasn't one to empty his purse on pure impulse.

He could always just save the money, he supposed.

* * *

Upstairs, after coming as close to literally turning a room upside down as they could manage, Varinn and Caliir had been unsuccessful in their search for Armen's stolen property. They'd left no bed unturned and no box unopened. Anywhere you could have hidden something of value had been scoured– Everything but the gaudy throw rug on the floor.

In their hurried looting they'd trampled the once-pristine piece of décor to the point where it was more muddy brown than any other color. Regardless, they had few other places to look and they wouldn't return with the knowledge that they _hadn't_ exhausted every possibility.

The rug was quite thick and admittedly heavy. The two warriors each took a side and prepared to lift the waterlogged cloth.

"One, two, _three_–" Varinn counted and they raised the rug together.

Then all the chaos of Oblivion broke loose.

Upon lifting the blanket they were rewarded with a series of mechanical sounds that most certainly did not fit the moment. There was no golden/jewel-encrusted sword. Instead they were met with a series of jury-rigged mechanisms that seemed to extend down to the floor. _And_ they found a rune.

Caliir had no time to say a word. Varinn had no time to issue an order. At that one heart-lurching moment they isolated themselves and acted purely on instinct, thinking only for themselves. When the going gets tough, self-preservation shines brightest.

Caliir reacted first. His hands left his end of the rug and he dashed backward, grabbing the edge of the nearby bed frame – _praying_ that the bedding would remain in place for no more than a few seconds – and erected it in front of him, whereas Varinn twisted and scrunched down, throwing the rug over his body. Both warriors made it about two-thirds of the way through their maneuvers when the rune activated.

The rune had been red, meaning fire. Suddenly a furious blaze filled the space around them, flashing brightly and exploding in every direction. The heat that washed over the pair was second only to the lack of oxygen and monumental shockwave that tore through their defenses. Caliir's bedding was instantly incinerated and the wood frame was blasted apart, throwing him against the wall behind him in a haze of splintered, blackened lumber. Varinn was pushed only a few feet but the blanket over him caught fire, stinging at his armor plates and cooking the skin underneath. To complete the picture of chaos, the cacophony of noise was deafening, as everything that _could_ break _did_ break, and in spectacular fashion.

One level down, Roki was met with a different surprise before the rune went off. He heard a mechanical sound, too rough to be Dwarven but to uniform to be a common construct like a door or draw bridge or anything that would make any sense_._ He whipped his head around, eyes wide, and saw what looked like two dead rabbits fall down from the ceiling. His knowledge alerted him and he looked down, seeing a bright red symbol suddenly emblazon itself on the floor.

His breath caught in his throat and he rushed to the window and dove out. The blast of fire launched him from his spot in the air and flinging into the night. A brief but intense ward spell was all that stopped him from being incinerated.

Roki felt himself impact the cliff face just outside and he started desperately grabbing for a handhold. He found one, which quickly broke away, forcing him to scramble for another as he fell another several feet. Finally, his hand found purchase on a hard, sturdy root growing from within the dirt shelf. Though his ears were ringing, he could still hear his own frenzied gasps for air.

Inside the tower, as Varinn struggled to one knee, he felt a hand on his back and a brief increase in weight. Then, he saw that one last bandit had vaulted over him and dashed back the way they'd come, down the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the speedy individual was carrying two sheaths across his back; it would seem they had found Amren's precious sword.

There was no letting him get away, no muttering "we tried" upon return to Whiterun. Sure, things had taken a slight turn for the worst, but such was to be expectedl; a journey with no setbacks isn't a journey at all.

Varinn brushed the tuffs of brunt hair from his head and spun on his heel, snatching up his blade.

"Cal, on your feet! There's one last bastard making a run for it with our prize!"

The Bosmer shakily got upright. He stumbled and fell against the stone, clutching his side. Varinn smelled his mer blood. Not enough of it to cause worry but, then again, he'd lost enough of his _own_ to resist the shock. Caliir was smaller than he, he had less to lose.

Cal pushed himself off the stone, awkwardly skipping forward past Varinn, and proceeded to hop down the stairs, using the banister for support, grunting viciously through his teeth.

"Cal, regroup with Roki!" the Nord yelled down the steps as he propped himself up on his greatsword, "Head him off before he reaches the tree line!" Caliir yelled something in acknowledgment.

One floor below, the Bosmer lost coordination and tumbled headlong down the last few stairs. He felt a hot, aching pain shoot through his jaw and right elbow and he tasted more copper. He fought through it, refusing to yield to anything less than fatal. He'd tasted his own blood before and he'd taken heavier hits. Once he was on his feet, his vigor was unchanged.

As for "fatal," the wooden spike in his side was becoming a nuisance. It was a splinter eating away at his insides. It _stung_, it shifted with his weight; the blood that seeped around it stung at his other scrapes and abrasions beneath his armor, and despite all of that he knew he couldn't remove it. He was no healer, but he was almost certain that something _busy_ had been punctured down there and any breach would have caused bleeding that he wasn't prepared to deal with right now.

Cal limp-hopped over to the ratty tapestry hung on the wall and yanked it all down. He tore a length of it away and slipped it under his chassis, wrapping it tight around his abdomen, just above the wound. That, with any luck, should slow the bleeding.

Now he had to end this damned bandit.

* * *

Roki, still clinging to the rocks just outside, was trying to see through the night's pouring shroud and plan a route to the ground when he saw a figure emerge from the rear door several stories below. At first he thought it was one of his comrades here to belittle his predicament, but such wasn't the case. Instead, the body language was off-putting, the pace differently disciplined, the silhouette of the armor was all wrong. They'd _missed_ one.

The mage let one hand leave his life-preserving ledge and he lit a small flame, flicking it at the cropping of shrubs near the figure. They burst into a small blaze which was immediately set upon by the persistent rain, but amidst the flickering natural light he could tell that this entity was not one of his friends.

The figure recoiled from the small burst of heat and stumbled away. Roki saw his chance to head the bandit off and took it, letting go of the root and sliding down the face.

He hit the ground hard, but didn't feel anything break. A few paces ahead of him was the bandit. Roki started forward but with a degree of difficulty; his legs may not have been broken but they still hurt, and his skin felt hot and he'd used the last of his reserves for spells. Despite that, he willed himself forward until he caught up with the figure, who turned upon hearing the stomps behind him.

Roki, knowing little other recourse, punched the man in the face, almost slipping in the rain and mud. He threw a second wild strike that the bandit blocked and countered with a hook of his own, catching Roki across his jaw. He landed another hard shot to Roki's gut before stepping back and pivoting quickly, and Roki felt the man's boot collide with his temple.

The mage saw white and was knocked flat, and the lone bandit broke into a dead sprint for the woods.

Caliir, with renewed vigor, charged past Roki's slowly squirming form only seconds later, slowing momentarily to make sure his comrade was still breathing. Once he was certain, he took off.

The woodland elf had little trouble catching up to the bandit. The only issues he was given were from his own wounds, and the adrenalin pumping through his veins and the blood rushing in his ears was more than enough to quell the pain. The silhouette he chased down became more and more defined in the solid dark of night and driving rain of summer until he was right on top of him.

He lunged himself onto the bandit's back, grabbing ahold of his furs and trying to ground him. This man was slippery though, and managed to stay on his feet as Cal desperately grappled. His boot heels slid through the earth. He eventually managed to squirm around to face the elf and gave him a quick, painful shot to the midsection. Caliir dropped to one knee and got his hands around both of the bandit's legs, then lifted him up and slammed him down with a wet sound, mud splattering around them.

The bandit held Caliir tight to halt his movement but the elf managed to break the hold and crawl over the man, and dropped a hard punch to the jaw, then another, and then _another_. His pace was slowing as he threw a fourth and the bandit grabbed his arm, pulling him in close for a hard headbutt. Cal was dazed and barely defended the sudden slice from a knife that the bandit hurriedly pulled from his belt. The blade cut Cal across the face, jerking him back. The two separated and staggered to their feet.

Even in the rain, Caliir could feel warmth running down his face. Both of his eyes seemed to be fine, so he pushed the grisly knowledge of his injury to the back of his mind. He squared up as the man advanced with the dagger. He threw several quick but sloppy strikes with the short blade that Cal dodged one after another, before blocking one and punching the man straight in the chin, then swatted the knife from his hand. He held the back of the man's neck and drove several knee strikes into his face. As the man broke free of the hold Cal grabbed one of the man's swords and, when he was pushed away, unsheathed it. Water leapt from the blade.

Both men slipped slightly in the mud before righting themselves. The bandit drew the second sword.

They met again and traded blows, both of them striking and parrying in equal measure. This man was good, better than Cal had expected for a fleeing thief, but he was growing more and more desperate the longer the fight went on, and soon his form and skill suffered for it.

With one last war cry, barely audible over the torrential rainfall, the bandit swung at Cal. He ducked, got inside and delivered a blow of his own, this one finding the slick of flesh. Caliir came down to one weary knee as the bandit slumped down to a heap beside him, dead in the mud.

All the current pain came steadily back to him as he huffed and puffed through his mouth, water and blood streaming down his dirtied face. He inspected the sword he'd used to end the melee and found it befitting the description given to them by Amren, and he would have chuckled if he had any breath left to do so.

He slowly got to his feet, one hand clutching the sword, the other holding his side. This storm showed no signs of subsiding until at least sunrise, and they were expected back in Whiterun by then.

He had to get back to the tower and give Roki guff about being knocked unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sister Danica– "

"You've heard my answer, Maedelin, and asking twice won't change it."

As the decided matriarch of the temple, Danica Pure-Spring had found a habit in passing judgment, be it on the wellbeing of a wounded soul or, in this case, the starry-eyed ambitions of a much younger and less experienced sister-in-healing. She might have feigned a tad bit more empathy if this hadn't been the umpteenth time this conversation had taken place.

"Very well, what about three times?" Maedelin persisted.

"Feel free to try, young one," Danica offered.

"May I lead a mission to the strongholds?"

"Hmm. No." The priestess turned and began walking away, and of course Mae dogged after her.

Every priest and priestess goes through a period where their own selflessness can cause them to become undue victims of circumstance. They sew together a few boys and suddenly they forget that mercy does not equate immunity from the world, and a whole mess of ideas start forming between them. Most of them had something to do with playing hero or heroine. Now wasn't the time for such figures.

"Well…could I _accompany_ a mission to the strongholds? I know you've deferred to brother Iain's favor and if this has something to do with a lack of faith in me personally, I'd be more than willing to let him lead the m– "

Danica stopped and faced her, "Three points, sister: One, my lack of faith has and always will be dispersed _evenly_ among my chapter; two, Iain is no more qualified to take charge of an excursion than you are, and _three_; there will _be_ no mission trip."

"But why _not_, Danica? Aren't the orsimer as deserving of our hand as any others?" Mae asked.

"I've told you why not, Maedelin, and it's not a question of entitlement. The orsimer have never extended an olive branch to any hold in the land, and they seem to be wholly satisfied with the skills of their own soothsayers. And they do not recognize the name of Kynareth or any of our Divines, and only that of the daedra Malacath, which is a savage's fairy tale, if nothing else."

Maedelin scoffed at this, snorting and crossing her arms, "Since when do we only offer treatment to those who pledge faith? Just the other day I patched together a drifter set upon by wolves; he cursed my name and that Kynareth, never stopped sneering debaucheries into my ear even as I was picking teeth out of his belly."

"Yes, but he sought _us_ out, Mae."

"He pissed on the Gildergreen."

"He was also drunk."

Mae frowned, "So we'll mend the slanderous, uncivilized and inebriated, but we won't offer a hand of goodwill to a group of outsiders who were never given the chance to know anything else."

"In a word, yes. Now see to your duties, I'll hear no more of this." Danica bowed curtly out of simple formality and took her leave.

Mae called after her "I was an only child, ma'am, I don't know what 'no' means!" It was intended as a threat.

"I come from a house of four siblings, young one; my patience will outlast your persistence."

Mae groaned in an unladylike manner and fell back against the wall. She hardly had time to calm down before Iain entered the temple with a limping farmer. He asked for her help in mending his leg, which had been injured while repairing a rooftop in the wake of the last great storm. Within moments they had him on a slab and were going about setting his limb.

During the routine procedure she kept giving thoughtful looks to her friend, though they fell on blind eyes as he was absorbed in his work. She considered Iain a dependable friend, the way anyone would think of someone who came from the same place as her, but she still found herself uncertain when she wondered if he would side with her on this little conflict between her and Danica Pure-Spring.

"That should help the leg stay fixed, Severio. Just don't go climbing anymore mountains, eh?" Iain joked.

"A mountain might be less shameful– _Damn_, that's going to get sore." Severio let his head fall back, kicking himself inside, "Man shouldn't fall off his own house…"

"Well, if anyone asks, I'll tell them you fought off a brigand or something. Unless you think they'd believe you fought off a bear. Whatever you need me to tell them."

"I'd rather just walk it off and pretend it never happened, if it's all the same to you."

"Of course." Iain nodded.

Maedelin had been lost in the glow of her own casting and she blinked herself back to attention. "We'll just keep you here a bit longer while I finish the regeneration."

"Sure, priestess." Severio said.

Maedelin could feel Iain's look. It was fairly obvious to any of the acolytes that she and Danica weren't getting along as of late. Yelling didn't help the situation. With a huff Mae decided that she should just be out with it before the rumor mill began to turn.

Iain spoke first, "I heard of something between you and sister Danica?"

"What do you think of orcs?" She responded suddenly, looking at him square.

His boyish eyes darted around for a moment, his lips twitched and then he came up with "Um…I'm sorry?"

"Orcs. Or the 'orsimer,' if you want. They're the tall, green guys who like to fight."

"Yes, I know what they are. And I think they're just noble savages, like everyone else. Why?" he asked, dismissing the question and countering with one of his own.

"Well, me and sister Danni don't see eye-to-eye on a great many things, most recently the orsimer. She thinks them beyond our charity." Mae explained with a more than a bit of scorn.

"Yes, but…aren't they?" Iain asked, Mae's eyes causing the question to sound more sheepish than he'd intended.

Severio cut in "Why would you want anything to do with those brutes?"

Mae shushed him and continued "Only if you think spiked walls and nasty snarls can separate an entire race from another. There's no reason we shouldn't be able to reach out to them."

"But no one asked us too."

Mae rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, "You sound just like Danica. What good is charity if the needy need to ask for it? Did someone ask you to take the cloth and bloody your hands in someone's guts for a living?"

"Growing up in a Bravil orphanage doesn't leave you with many other options." Iain answered plainly.

"Shut up, I'm making a point here. What I'm trying to get across is that, as acolytes of Kynareth, how can we say we willingly ignore an entire culture that suffers do to its own ignorance?"

"Don't the orcs…enjoy whatever suffering you're talking about? How do we know they'll even accept help if it's offered?" Iain asked.

"You know Iain, you can just say you're scared. It's okay, everyone's scared of them. I mean, orcs are just elves; thicker, uglier elves. Are you scared of elves?" She asked, wanting to get a rise out of him. If she couldn't win him over, she'd just have to bait him.

"I'm scared of anything that weighs more than I do."

Damn.

"You shouldn't concern yourself with the green sods. They'll just spit it in your face." Severio chimed in. Mae scowled and caused his cracked leg to fidget, quieting him. Iain just looked on nervously.

They eventually set the farmer on his way. She spend the rest of her day doing roughly the same thing, going out of her way to trade sour looks with Pure-Spring. Despite her mood, she found a peace in her work. The purity of healing granted her calmness and clarity. By the time the sun had set she was mostly level-headed.

At night she frequented the square in the Cloud District, feeding the birds and taking in the Gildergreen. The children ran and played until their parents called them in. The bustle of the merchants made its way to the tavern, where it was given a muffled quality. The guards escorted Brenuin to the jail for the night. After a while, she was nearly the only one out.

Jenssen, one of the senior priests, found her sitting alone and sat down beside her. She greeted his warm eyes and grin with her own.

"You favor the bench over your bed these days, Maedelin." He started.

She smiled and brushed her hair back. She already kept it shorter than average length, but it still found a way to get in her eyes. "I guess I just feel more collected out here."

"I can't honestly hold that against you," he said in a stretching tone as he crossing his arms and settled back on the bench, "Watching the ebb and flow of people, it's like watching nature. And of course there's the Gildergreen."

"Looks better than ever."

There was a pause between them that Jenssen used to stroke his beard absently. For a nord he was remarkably agreeable and soft-spoken. His appearance only belayed those qualities. Another trait of his was that he always knew when something was wrong, not that Maedelin did a particularly good job at hiding it.

Eventually she did tell him about her most recent falling out with Danica, and her "plan" to visit the orsimer holds. It was funny; explaining it now, it sounded as silly as Pure-Spring made it seem. This worried her.

"I'm sure you've answered this enough today already, but I'll still ask: Why?" Jenssen said earnestly, "It's not a question of whether or not I think you're able. Why do _you_ want to go?"

Mae waited for a moment before answering, sitting upright and crossing her arms within her sleeves to ward off the night's shrill breeze, "I guess…I don't know. I just…want to help people, I suppose. It's not that– "

"Then that's it." He cut in. She looked at him questioningly. He followed up with "That's all you need say. Don't waste your time justifying something you believe in. Especially when it comes to helping others."

He nodded and patted her shoulder before heading back inside.

The wind blew again and Mae put up her hood. With a contented smile she lay back across the bench and looked up into the river of stars and color above her.


	3. Chapter 3

The piercing blade of Heartfire, the blade that no armor can stop, cut into all of them. It, coupled with the damning, rhythmic whining of the cartwheels, carried with it two meanings. The cold reminded them of the land that they were in, and the creaking reminded them that they were sure to die in it. Lagara kept her head bowed, knowing this was all her fault.

She heard a light dappling; a third sound. Her silver eyes glanced along the wooden floor of the cart until they fell upon the sight of a spattering of dark, orc blood, small now but well-able to grow. Fresh droplets added to it in little dull drips. Daring a look upward, she saw the wound they bleed from and the orc who bore it. Lagara knew little of the hardiness of orcs, despite being one herself. She'd never been in a battle, never seen so much of her people's blood so needlessly shed. She didn't know what to make of the two-foot gash stretching from Ulrag's shoulder to the center of his chest, only that it most likely wouldn't heal without a scar, something that would remind both of them of its infliction should they ever see anything but the inside of a jail cell again.

Beside Ulrag sat Vorgar, half-masked in crimson. He chose to sit up straight, the wind sweeping the half of his mohawk that wasn't matted down with blade. Unlike Ulrag, his harsh eyes blinked to meet hers, and she averted her gaze back to the floor. It was hard avoiding the faces of all five of them.

"Cold mistress…won't even give us the sun…" the orc to Lagara's right remarked tiredly, referring to the slate-gray sky cast above them. Behind it, something warm and beautiful did its best to make itself known, but was repeatedly repressed, just like this whole country.

"I hoped to see it one more time before we're sent to off to Fort Neugrad or some damned place," the orc continued, aware that he wasn't supposed to be talking and that the guard at the head of the cart could hear him, "That is if it hasn't been overrun by marauders or warlocks like the rest of them."

"Shut it, orc," the guard ordered with feigned concern. From what Lagara could piece together, this particular guard had little interest in playing watchman over prisoners. He barely looked at them, less out of fear and more boredom. Lagara didn't know what to make of him. He was dressed uniformly, looked to be younger and of average height and build, thick stubble lining his mouth and jaw, dark hair kept short. But there was a coiled air about him, something that made him seem dangerous.

"Is that where we're going, soldier? Fort Neugrad? Or are you taking us all the way to the Imperial City?" The orc pressed on, looking over Lagara to meet the guard's cold glance, "I say we're under-dressed."

To this the guard said nothing. He just looked off over the side, absently nibbling at his thumb.

Lagara looked over at the wordy orsimer beside her. Yolgrus always did enjoy getting a rise out of people. He was learned and well-traveled, a quality not shared by most of their kind, and knew whether or not someone was capable of violence, and just how far he could push them before they resorted to it. It hadn't surprised her one bit that he had led the group sent to rein her in after she had run off.

Why, in Malacath's name, had she done that?

When she was staring off into the misty distance from atop of the stronghold's watchtower, thinking about all that was being kept from her in life, it had seemed like a _great_ idea. Several miles of cold feet, giddy breaths and frosty brush had done little to deter that sentiment. Even when she heard the voice of her kinfolk captors hunting for her in the woods she held out the belief that this was the right thing for her.

Only when she saw one of her own die for the first time did she realize how wrong she'd been.

They'd killed Burlok, as if on a whim. She must have led the search party on a merry chase to have been caught so deep in lands that were not their own. By the time her kinsman had bleed out, the sun was coming up.

She'd kept her eyes on the corpse as long as she was able, until they descended a hill and rounded a corner and Burlok was gone, just like that. She had witnessed plenty of Bloodprice rituals, laughed heartily during a great many drunken brawls. But those always ended in resolution. When Burlok fell, she waited for them to help him up. When they were stripped to rags she listened for his pained groan of compliance. When they were being bound and loaded into the cart, she waited for him to stagger to his feet and dust himself off. Needless to say, none of those things happened. They hadn't even buried him.

She couldn't even bring herself to look at her kinsmen now. She was scared of them, scared of what they might think or do to her for putting them all in this position. She was scared of the Imperials after seeing what they had done and for what they might go on to do. And she was scared of…damn it all, she was scared of everything.

Somewhere along this train of thought she found herself inching over to face Yolgrus, her mouth trying initially in vain to form words. Despite the dreadlocks, partial beard and facial tattoos, he was one of the more inviting members of the stronghold. It was in his eyes; there was an articulate spark there, something that said he understood.

"…Yolgrus, I-I…" she tried, unaware how much her emotions had weakened her speech, "I-I'm– "

"Save it, little one. Just…save it." He said, not harshly but definitely firm. He believed one should acknowledge mistakes, not be mocked for making them.

She looked away from him, slightly relieved. A hollow shudder escaped her and she felt a tear inch away from her eye. This she wouldn't allow, and quickly dried it on her shoulder.

"I just– " She tried again but once more Yolgrus told her to be calm and stay quiet. She didn't relent though, managing to piece together "I…just want to say I-I'm sorry about Burlok." She had to fight to keep herself collected. She kicked herself the minute she finished; it was almost an insult to the dead orsimer's memory, thinking something as childish as an apology would put things right. But she just didn't know what else to say.

Yolgrus' face remained stone and he sighed deeply, "He died sword-in-hand. It's what he'd have wanted."

Lagara didn't know if he was being honest or if he was just trying to reassure her. She didn't press the issue further and continued to sit in silence.

Ulrag suddenly spoke to her, "You shed a tear for him?" His chest seeped freshly as he breathed, further coloring the wood at his feet.

She wanted to shake her head but could only look at him, still taken aback by his wound. He said, "Shed a tear for these Imps, for signing away their lives the moment they decided to imprison an _orsimer_!"

That was loud, and directed at their captors. For once, the guard looked at something like he cared about it, and Ulrag kept his look. Lagara felt the tension and braced herself for whatever happened next.

Lagata nearly choked when the man stood, swiped a dagger across the orc's throat then drove it under his chin, holding it there and twisting it. A sickening sound of pierced meat and splintered bone described it to those who looked away. With all the air of a farmer reaping his crops, he pushed the body over the side and sat back down.

The five other orcs couldn't hide their shock, each registering it differently. Some masked it with rage, others averted their eyes, and Lagara just starred at the empty space that had once been occupied by a life. All that was left of Ulrag was the stain he'd left on the floor.

The Imperial soldier went back to resting his hand on his chin and taking in the countryside, as if nothing happened. He briefly looked to them and remarked "You're a talky bunch of orcs."

The orc to Lagara's left, Jalgosh, was seething with rage. Lagara started to feel uneasy being near him. He got the Imperial's attention and spat "Killing a man with his hands tied; you're not an Imp, you're a gutless _bastard_ of an Imp."

Lagara's eyes barely had time to go wide. There was another brief movement and the soldier buried his steel blade into Jalgosh's neck, pressing downward and pinning his head against the side of the cart. There was not an emotion to be seen in the man's eyes. He quickly ripped the blade free in Lagara's direction, splattering some of Jal's blood on her face. She recoiled with a half-swallowed whimper, and found herself looking at Yolgrus again.

Yolgrus held the Imperial's gaze. The Imperial returned the favor, and then sat back down. He let Jalgosh's body stay where he died. "I hope we understand each other," he said plainly.

Soon after, Lagara heard Yolgrus say something to her. It was only one word, and not in the common tongue but in theirs. Only one word and the Imperial already unsheathed his knife again and glared at him, saying he'd open him up if he uttered one more letter in that language. Yolgrus seemed to comply, saying nothing else and keeping his eyes forward for the next hour or so.

At first she didn't understand what the word had meant. After all they'd seen, he risked being butchered over one word, and the one he chose was "Left."

To her left where Jalgosh had been sitting, and now just slumped, the place where he'd bled out and died. During which he was able to fish a second small dagger out of the Imperial's pocket, and hidden it as his life oozed from him. And with his last breath Jal managed to go limp just close enough to Lagara…that she'd be able to take it in hand without anyone knowing. Anyone…but Yolgrus.

She expected him to grin. Despite current circumstances, she almost felt like grinning herself. But he didn't, so neither did she.

Time passed, the day grew colder, and before long the line of carts entered a more forested path, one that began to decline sharply to the point where they were all practically diagonal. The three carts put several leagues of space between themselves in the event of a crash. Slowly they began to descend the path.

Yolgrus tapped Lagara's bare foot with his, and she knew it was time. Time for what, she didn't know entirely, but she wagered it had something to do with glory, freedom and vengeance. In all honesty, she was ready to just settle for the last of those three.

There was an inch or so of space between the board she sat on and the wall of the cart she pressed her back against, just enough space to slip the stolen dagger between. When Yolgrus opened his mouth to the guard again, it found its way across the floor of the cart to Androg, who seemed to have pieced this plan together with Yolgrus completely from twitches of the eye.

"If I laid with a girl from Cyrodil, and you laid with a maiden from the Orsinium," Yolgrus started, drawing a very aggravated look from the guard, who seemed to have been waiting for this slip all afternoon. Lagara saw his fingers dancing along the handle of his knife. Yolgrus continued, "Who do you think would serve their kind more admirably? Do you think you could outlast an orsimer woman, Imperial?"

The guard rose. Yolgrus pressed on, "Because it seems like you can only get your kicks with that knife, so I just put two and two together…"

With a bit of difficulty, the guard balanced himself on the inclined floor of the cart and marched over to Yolgrus, grabbing a handful of his dreads and yanking them back.

The horseman several yards behind them called out to the guard. He did this because he saw Androg suddenly cut his binds and grab the guard from behind, trapping the arm wielding the knife and dragging the second across his throat from ear to ear, slowly and with meaning. Lagara didn't mind his blood spraying on her. His hands held onto Yolgrus' hair in a death grip, his head still held back, and he smiled at the dying Imperial as redness poured from his neck and trickled intricately across his chain mail. For the first time, his cold eyes registered something: Shock and fear.

Everything else happened quickly. The horse behind them reared and neighed, the soldiers in its cart cursing and trying to mobilize. The one up front was confused as to what the commotion was. Androg dropped the dead guard, climbed over the cart and grabbed the rider driving them, pulling him back by his collar, pressing him down and stabbing him in the chest and throat several times. The wet gasps and yelps were his last.

They wasted no time cutting each other's bindings. Yolgrus order all four of them out of the cart, and they jumped out nearly in unison. Together they dug their heels into the slanted ground, took ahold of the back wheels of the cart and, as one, flipped it headlong over the horse. Lagara and Androg both slipped to their knees but still managed to see the cart and horse tumble violently down the incline and right into the lead cart, creating a devastating crash of bodies and wood.

Androg gave Vorgar the rider's sword, while Lagara took up the dead guard's. Yolgrus settled on his bare hands until something better came along, which was unlikely.

Six armed and armored Imperials piled out of the sole remaining cart to meet the soon-to-be escapees and drew their swords. Yolgrus and the others all let out a battle cry, Lagara finding the animosity within her to join in. It didn't start vicious and proud, but standing beside her brothers, armed and bloodied, she found that fire within herself and her roar found harmony with the others. She was ready to avenge the blood she'd seen today. They charged.

The rider drew a bow atop the horse, and Androg threw his dagger into the man's chest. It didn't penetrate the breast plate enough to do real damage but it did falter his aim, the arrow lodging itself in the orc's left bicep. The real damage came when Androg charged on and jumped at the rider, clotheslining him off the horse, ripping the dagger from his chest, and then driving it into his neck.

Yolgrus ducked a swing from a sword and came up with a vicious uppercut, then grabbed the soldier's wrist and yanked his sword from his hand. Holding it inverted, he quickly slashed forward, reaping the Imperial's throat and spraying red ahead of him. Yolgrus flipped the blade upright, deflected another strike from another enemy and ran him through, hefting the body upward off the ground.

Vorgar rolled behind one soldier, sliced off one of his legs, then spun full-circle, decapitating him. He kicked another soldier in the chest then drove the sword into his gut.

Lagara wasn't nearly as crisp or liquid as the much more experienced warriors she fought with, but she was still an orc. She traded blows more than competently with the Imperials. Two attempted to gang up on her and she grunted savagely as she parried and blocked between them. Eventually she batted a sword strike downward and kicked the soldier away from her. He recovered and attempted to attack Androg, who trapped his arm and threw him over his hip, then slit his throat.

The final kill would be hers, she was determined to make that so. The others seemed content with it, forming a semi-circle around her and the lone Imperial officer. The more she swung, the less she had to block. Her strikes became more savage, less skilled, and became an assault born of pure repressed rage.

With another howl she cut an X through the officer's steel chest plate then spun, coming back around to behead the man. Almost immediately she fell to her knees, the sword suddenly becoming very heavy, the battle becoming very tiring, the rage becoming little more than anguish.

She cried, but didn't sob. She let no sound out, but couldn't stop the tears this time. They cut clean streaks in the mud and blood that had caked on her youthful face. Her fangs quivered behind her lips. Covering her face with her reddened hands, she shuddered into her palms, letting the torturous rush of a first kill wash through her.

The other orcs stood idly by, not saying a word or making a single face, letting the she-orc have her life experience. They'd all been there at one point, as loathe as they may have been to admit it. They all knew the mettle this would build on her, and for that they thanked Malacath.

Yolgrus pulled a sword and sheath from a dead soldier and slung it to his hip, the others doing the same. He walked over to Lagara, who was now just kneeling in the dirt, her silver eyes very far away.

"It's time we all go home," he said, hand on her shoulder.

"I know." She answered.


	4. Chapter 4

Carlo had never met an argonian before. He'd heard all sorts of stories and imagined all manner of descriptions, but never actually got to meet one. They were an exotically beautiful people, he found, and hoped that their racial piercing stare meant they didn't mind if he stared back. He reasoned that any race with the head of an animal and the body of a man would be…_fairly_ accustomed to people staring.

He did know that they had the gift of water-breathing, something Carlo would do a great many unpleasant things to have for himself. After spending sixteen years roaming High Rock and another ten roaming the mountains and deserts of Hammerfell, he was left with few other fresh stomping grounds than the vastness of the ocean floor.

With the ability to breath underwater taken into account, it did make Carlo a bit uneasy when their modest-sized boat hit a particularly mean white cap that rocked the craft. If Carlo fell into the churning surf, his clothes would waterlog and within moments he'd be sucked under and find his end beneath the waves. Being tossed overboard would just be an inconvenience for the argonian.

At the moment he was being ferried across Iliac Bay, back home to his homeland of Greater Bretony. Well, Greater Bretony by racial roots anyway. His real home had been the coastlines of all of High Rock, as it tends to be for the children of worldly nomads. But Greater Bretony had a nice, classy ring to it, and "worldly nomad" was a less combative term than "gypsy."

"What did you tell me your name was?" Carlo asked, turning away from the water.

"Maelinge-Baa."

"_Minge bag_?"

"Maelinge-_Baa_, sir." He corrected. He sounded irritated but understanding. That name was a _mess_.

Carlo looked back to the water, seeing the coast growing thicker, taking more of the horizon. Soon they'd be seeing fishing vessels from Wayrest. His belly began to growl.

"Have you ever been to Hammerfell, Mailing Baa?" Carlo asked.

"We just came from there, sir."

Carlo chuckled, "No, I mean really _been_ to Hammerfell. You ever take a break from pacing the Bay and take in some of the countryside?"

"Mm. Once or twice. Too dry a climate for me, sir," the argonian said in a clipped tone, "Been to Skaven once."

"If you ever set foot in Sentinal, there's a good chance you saw my parents. They were performers, specialized in conjuration. They got pretty good at it, too, drew quite a crowd. Father even had the good sense to teach me a bit of it, although I never got on stage. They had me sow the marks."

The argonian made…what _looked_ like a questioning face. Carlo elaborated "It means to pick everyone's pocket while mom and dad kept them busy. We ran the same operation all along the coast back home from Menevia to Bhoriane."

"I'll be sure to keep my pockets secure, sir." The ferryman said, uninterested, though Carlo reassured him that those days and practices were behind him.

"Ever been to Satakalaam?" Carlo asked, almost giddy that he had a captive audience, "Incredible place. So much history there, and right on the beach. Might not be a bad place to take a woman, eh?"

"I've heard of vampires at Satakalaam." Maelinge-Baa said, to which Carlo scoffed.

"Aah, they don't come around there much, at least not in the day time. Too much sunlight in the north, not like the vampires of Skyrim who could suck you dry at midday if they wanted. Couldn't say what goes on there at night, though; there's _lots_ of places in Hammerfell you don't want to be at night."

"Sounds like a lovely place. I should visit there more often," the argonian said. Something about that last bit sounded sarcastic.

Carlo sat down and retrieved a flask from his inner pocket, "I know I'm not exactly selling you on the place. Some breton I am." He took a generous swig before continuing "But my trip doesn't count. I have what they call in Cyrodil, a 'thrill-seeking personality.' Happens to you when grow up scamming folks out of their gold."

"Some Breton you are," the argonian repeated. Once again, Carlo detected sarcasm. He grinned, starting to like this Mauling-Bad.

The breton tossed the ferryman a few extra gold pieces with the pretense that he'd keep quiet about those things he'd said about him and his parents, though he doubted the argonian cared enough to remember them. Still, he'd let Carlo talk at him, so for that he was paid.

By sundown that day he was well on his way to his next adventure, whatever it may be. He bought a horse in Wayrest and rode it all the way to Evermore, where he hunkered down in an inn for the night and found strong drink and rallied some impassioned singing. After enough laughs were had he managed to fall on top of the nearest thing that felt like a bed.

In the morning it took a flat half-tankard of what was left of last night's drink to splash him awake. He thanked the innkeeper for her prompt service and asked for a mirror to take himself in. Through the throbbing headache he could see most of himself; a face that was longer for a breton's, with a prominent brow that cast a small shadow over mellow eyes, and a cleft chin that was his bread and butter. He kept a black beard as well, only centimeters thick and well-trimmed. The same could be said for the hair on his head, thick as it was. His mother always said he had a dash of nord in his blood somewhere. That statement always made Father a little fidgety, wondering how far removed that blood was.

He got underway by noon, after an impromptu meal with the blacksmith, who turned out to be an old associate of his. He had his wife throw together a sack of edibles for the road, which his was _very_ gracious for. In the hangover's name, he devoured half of them before midday.

Night fell again, as it always did. He was having trouble finding a place to hitch for the night when he was lucky enough to come across what had to have been the only khajiit caravan in High Rock. They agreed to share the fire with him if he was willing to share what was left of his given food.

Their names were Ki'erva, Dro'Baad (the lead driver) and his wife Adanji, their son Ma'Dat and a bodyguard named Rabinna. Dro'Baad was a man of few words, his wife doing most of the talking, their son occasionally throwing in something naïve but entertaining. Ki'erva apparently never picked up the common tongue, and Carlo had only picked up enough Ta'agra for only the most basic exchanges, but a kind glance from her every now and then said she appreciated the effort. And Rabinna, true to her trade, never seemed to trust him entirely. Carlo liked Rabinna.

"…anyway, that was why they had to rebuild the temple. I swear, my involvement was purely circumstantial." Carlo finished, chewing a loaf of bread.

The story caused Dro'Baad to chuckle dryly, as if there was any other way for a khajiit to chuckle, and he wife added "You got him to laugh. Now that's something you can truly wear on your wrist, breton."

Carlo bowed, making a show of it. Ma'Dat giggled. Rabinna eyed him and said "You claim to have been to a great many places, breton. Where does this wanderlust come from?"

He thought about that for a moment before answering "It's just…in my blood, I suppose. Can't remember staying in one place for longer than a fortnight, and I guess that lifestyle sticks to you."

"Indeed it does. Like stink on shit," Dro'Baad added. Adanji slapped his arm, saying to Carlo "He likes you."

"So you just decided to leave Hammerfell and come to…where was it? Skyrim?" Ma'Dat asked.

"That's the idea, yes." Carlo confirmed. He could sense the indecision in the air. He looked around and grinned, "Uh…something I should know about Skyrim?"

"Nothing one as well-traveled as you shouldn't know already…" Rabinna said with a pinch of scorn. Adanji scowled at her briefly and amended "Things are turbulent in the nord's land right now. Their jarls talk of war, both civil _and_ against the Empire. Things haven't been peaceful there for a while now."

"Is this news in High Rock? I could have told you that when I was living in Alik'r." Carlo said with a snort.

"They say that now, things are worse than before. There have already been a number of skirmishes at the border. The holds of Skyrim are becoming divided." Rabinna said.

"Fighting against your own…" Dro'Baad sighed, "Their country as a whole is like a drunken nord in itself, swinging wildly at all who come near. They cannot fight two wars for the same land."

He was a wise old cat. Carlo took all he said that night to heart.

At one point in the evening, Adanji asked earnestly "What do you wish to find in Skyrim, friend?"

That time he really did pause. The thought caused his eyes to distance themselves for a moment. This was one of those points when you were to pick your words and pick them well. Eventually, he settled with "I don't know… Someone…some_thing_? I'll know when I find it." This made them all chuckle. Carlo just grinned fondly.

Things grew late, and Carlo bought a discounted bedroll and fur from Dro'Baad. It was an agreeable night, he would catch plenty of sleep. He hoped to be in the savage, frozen, war-torn land by evening tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

The days were starting to wear on Maedelin. Every morning she woke up with renewed vigor to confront Sister Danica, and every time she tried she seemed to lose footing. The conversations, if one could even call them that now, became less tolerant, less accommodating to compromise, to the point where Mae was just throwing argumentative outbursts at a humanoid wall. Maybe Danica would win this one.

But then Maedelin would think of how backing down now would only please her current antagonist and leave her dissatisfied with her cause and herself. It was barely about the orcs now, and more about proving to her superior that she was simply _capable_, both of her own duties as a healer and as someone who was able to make their own way.

She decided that night to get a little more unconventional with her warfare.

* * *

A crashing sound broke through the dull noon din, coming from inside one of Whiterun's houses. It was irregular enough that a pair of guards decided to knock on that house's door and see what it was.

The response wasn't exactly immediate, making one of the pair a little nervous. He rested his hand on his sword, nodding at his partner to knock again, but harder.

The door opened just enough that they could speak to Amren through it. He seemed loathe to open it further, or to address the bleeding from his nose. Still, he greeted the two of them with a curt smile and a hello.

"Everything alright?" One of them asked.

"Of course, everything's just fine," Amren answered, keeping a hand on the door. The blood from his nose slowly formed a drip on his chin. One of the guards watched it fall to the floor.

He asked "Did you have a fall?"

"Uh, something like that. The wife keeps her things upstairs and in the way. Was only a matter of time before they caused me to take a dive down the stairs." He followed his words up with a nigh-convincing chuckle.

It took about a minute for the guards to buy it before nodding goodbye and walking off to resume their rounds. Amren looked after them almost pleadingly before he was yanked back inside, the door being slammed shut.

Caliir kept ahold of Amren's neck and methodically ran his face into a shelf then dragged it along the top, knocking off and shattering all sorts of knickknacks and decorations. A stray ruby rolled across the floor and Roki stopped it with his foot. He picked it up and eyed it curiously before pocketing it.

"This is a pretty nice home, Amren, but you _will_ run out of nice things for me to break. After that I'll just start breaking _you_." Caliir threatened, booting his victim over the lit fire ring, drawing a yelp from Amren as he scrambled away from it.

"You crooked bastards! What makes you think you can just enter our home and harass us like this?" Saffir spat at them. Amren's wife seemed to have more fight in her than Amren did, so Varinn kept her arm in his grasp, the annoyance clear in his eyes, twitching every so often when she tried to break free.

"You see, ma'am, your husband owes us _money_. Money we risked more than a bit to earn." Varinn explained levelly.

That seemed to change Saffir's disposition. She ceased her struggling and looked right at Amren, with a glare that married men learned early to fear. Roki chuckled and posted up against a cabinet.

"Is this true, Amren? Did you promise these men money?" She asked.

If there wasn't tension in the air before, there sure was now. Amren's look twitched between his wife and his accosters. He seemed more willing to talk to Caliir than his beloved.

"Saffir, I– " he started but she cut in, shouting "How much did you promise them? And more to the point, why are they saying you're holding out on them!?" She turned to Varinn and asked "That what he's doing, right?" He nodded, and she looked back to Amren expectantly.

"It was for something worthwhile, I swear, Saffir. That sword has been in my family for– " he tried again, but in vain.

"For too damned long, if you ask me, for it's only brought us trouble!" she shouted. Varinn let her go and took a step away, and she went on, "And you send these men to fetch it back for you after some bum made off with it because you were too dimwitted to lock away, and too cowardly to get it yourself!"

Amren carefully got on his knees before his wife. Cal grinned at Roki, who was _loving_ it. Amren gathered himself and said in the warmest tone he could muster "Saffir, I hired these men because…because I didn't know what would happen if I _did_ go after it myself, or what our daughter would think if I didn't come back."

There was pause. All three of the sellswords were teetering on the edge of the domestic confrontation. Roki nearly lost it when Saffir slapped her husband, pushed passed Caliir and opened the door, giving Cal her husband's house key. "Come find me when they've beaten whatever deadbeat gold they can from you." She stormed out, muttering how she'd married a foolish, short-sighted liar. The door was locked behind her.

Varinn didn't think this would have been as…awkward as it turned out to be. All they'd wanted was to get their four hundred septims. They'd ended up trashing a home, beating a _mostly_-honest man and potentially jeopardizing a marriage.

Caliir let Amren rush to the door and bang on it a little, yelling after his wife. Once that got old, Cal kicked him in the small of his back, rattling the door, then slammed his face into the wood. The redguard staggered back from the threshold, and Cal grabbed him again and hit him with a few modest punches to the gut before pushing him over to Roki, who just kicked him in the groin and pushed him over, not even having to uncross his arms, still leaning against the cupboard.

Cal stepped over Amren. "Well, look at it this way; we're no longer your biggest problem. So the choice to give us the money or not," he knelt down and grabbed Amren's collar, "should be a fairly easy one now."

"Look, i-it's not that I– "

Caliir looked at Varinn, "Did that sound like 'I'll give you the four-hundred septims?'" When the nord shook his head, Cal headbutted the redguard, snapping the man's head back. The bosmer mercenary didn't seem to feel it.

"By the _damned_ _Nine_, will someone let me get a word in!?" Amren exclaimed, holding his nose.

"You realize I was _stabbed_ over that sword, right?" Cal asked, scowling, "I've had my fill of horseshit for the month."

Roki chimed in "Be thankful we're still demanding the original fee. Because three days later, that _still_ didn't feel like a four hundred-piece job. And the weather was _awful_."

Amren shook his head free of the cobwebs and snorted some of the blood from his nose clear, "I'm sorry that things didn't go well, but you're all still here, aren't you? You're here and you finished the job, and for that you _have_ my thanks!"

"That doesn't buy food and weapons, last I checked," Roki quipped.

Amren groaned and said "I admit it: I was gouging you people. I was worried you wouldn't take the job unless I really enticed you."

"With _four hundred gold_?" Cal scoffed, "I've fucked argonian whores that didn't cost four hundred gold!"

"What was your plan for when we came back?" Roki asked, bewildered.

Varinn intervened, seeing that this was going nowhere, "Either way, we took your offer, and now it's time to collect. You owe us four hundred, and I do not care particularly as to how you go about getting it. We'll return in two days. Whatever it is that you do for money, start doing more of it, or next time I'll let the _elf_ hold you wife back, and _we'll_ talk."

Varinn grabbed Caliir and hauled him to his feet, ordering everyone to the door. Roki followed along, passing Amren and saying "If you ever, y'know, need any _more_ work done in the future, remember that I only watched."

The trio exited the house nonchalantly. Varinn looked around to make sure there were no guards watching the house. Caliir cracked his knuckles and brushed his hair out of his face. Roki put his hands on his hips, seemingly taken back, "Security in Whiterun really _is_ terrible. We should extort people more often. Just…people with money."

"It isn't extortion when you were promised payment. Roki, you're in charge of the man's blade until he can pay up." Varinn said stiffly. Roki saluted and took the sheathed weapon.

Caliir briefly looked at the healer's hut or temple or whatever they called it here, and wondered if he should stop inside to get his wound looked at. Varinn caught him looking and said that, yes, he should. "What's the Divine's charity run these days?" he asked.

"I do believe it is free of charge for healing," Varinn said.

"No, for some _companionship_. There's not a decent brothel in this whole half of the country. Wonder if there's someone in there willing break a few vows for a fair price." Cal amended.

"For a tumble under the covers with you? 'Not a fair price in all of Nirn." Roki jabbed.

From a bench down the street by the Gildergreen, Maedelin watched the three warriors converse and go about their day. Beneath her hood, she smiled; they were perfect.

* * *

Danica Pure-Spring heard the door to her chambers open, alerted by the dancing of her candle flame as the air shifted. The priestess knew who it was that was willing to disturb her at this hour of the night, and didn't bother looking up from her writings.

"Sister Danica," Maedelin greeted with as little respect as she could manage and not be reprimanded for it.

"You are in my quarters, Maedeline," Danica stated, dabbing her quill in the inkwell.

Mae smoothed out her robe nervously, "I know, I just wanted to have a word. If you'll let me."

"Just _one_ word?" Danica asked, eyeing the younger priestess. Her hood was up, making her a bit more intimidating than usual. Mae exhaled and sat down, "Maybe a bit more than one. But if you'll just hear me out, just this one time, this will be the last time I'll speak of it."

"Were I so lucky…" she muttered as she closed her book and set her feather aside, "As much as I'd like to, Mae, I'm afraid I've already heard you out. Several times. And each time you've been progressively less and less capable of demonstrating your maturity both as an acolyte of Kynareth and as a grown woman. I would go as far as to say that your behavior borders childish and unbecoming."

"I know, Sister Danica."

"And furthermore, you seem incapable of grasping that y– I'm sorry?" Danica stopped herself, not sure what she had heard.

"I said I _know_, Sister Danica." Mae repeated with conviction, sounding more earnest now than any other time Danica had spoken to her, "Carrying on the way we have, it's…well, it's a slight against everything this temple stands for. This isn't the place for grudges or feuds between what is supposed to be a fellowship of caregivers. I want to apologize for my behavior as of late."

Danica didn't know what to say. From the minute the young woman walked in she had been rehearsing an entire rant meant to put her in her place for good. But what she wasn't ready for was an admittance of humility. This was…unusual, to say the least. It was just enough that Danica was willing to give her the floor, nodding her head and motioning for Maedelin to continue.

She brushed her hair aside and went on, "I realize…that the things I suggested were outside the abilities of this commune. Skilled as we are, there are some things we're not equipped to handle, as well-intentioned as they may be."

"That's right," Danica said, "Our duties are to those who come to us, at the foot of Kynareth's mercy. And I'll not see someone under my charge be put on a pike over some den of savages."

Maedelin made a face like she'd just eaten something strange and nodded. Danica looked at her for a long while.

"Despite everything we've said to one another, I will never say that I don't respect you, young one." Danica said. The words didn't seem to register fully with the priestess, but she was still thankful for having heard them, "I know what it is like when you feel you can't do something. I took the cloth only _after_ I watched too many people suffer needlessly. I understand your reasoning; I can almost respect your _pestering_ me for days on end because it showed how much you believed in your work."

"U-Um…thank you, Sister Danica." Mae said.

"You are welcome, Maedline. Just know that whenever you feel I've held you back, it's because I wanted to keep you out of harm's way."

Mae sat there for a while, hopefully taking Danica's words to heart. Pure-Spring wasn't lying; she truly wanted Maedelin to succeed, and with as little wear-and-tear as possible. She saw the young healer accomplishing much in the years ahead of her, there was no point in her putting all of them at risk over some bubbly, youth-induced venture of heroism.

Mae was practically born in an orphan in Cyrodiil. She would not die as a trophy in Skyrim.

The compassion that was just built between the two was retreaded upon Mae standing and saying calmly "Well, with all that in mind, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

* * *

The Bannered Mare was quite lively this evening, thanks in part to the troop of sellswords that had decided to make the tavern their home for the night. Hulda would be throwing all but one of them (whomever rented a bed first) into the pens after they passed out, but she didn't need to tell them that yet.

Mikael was leading a rousing rendition of an old nord folk song that the biggest of the mercenaries had reminded everyone of, and they all had a grand time rediscovering it together. A square of men and woman had been formed around the pit, and all were singing and drinking in equal measure.

Saadia found herself dancing with a handsome young nord, neither of them being particularly good at it, but both found joy in the attempt.

A few of the older denizens of Whiterun kept to the edge of the cheery crowd, content with warm drink and reminiscence.

"Remember, you pass out without a bed, you sleep with the cows!" Hulda called over the merry cacophony. A few of them lamented humorously while others just cheered that sleeping with the cows was the next best thing to being married in this town. Flagons were clacked together and the floor was wetted further by mead and cider.

The blond nord dancing with Hulda's waitress promptly left her side and attempted to barrel his way to Hulda's counter, intending to take the only spare room available. A few others made a show of deterring him and holding him back. His other companion, the dark-haired elf, made to do the same, both men being held by a squad of their guffawing peers. They both soldiered through the revelers at a relatively close pace, both contesting with four or five other bodies and their own drink-laden ones.

The elf, in a miraculous feat of strength and agility, made it to the bar seconds before his nord companion, slapping a handful of septims on the counter and the demanding the upstairs room. Hulda chuckled as she took his money, the nord doing a disappointed dance and roaring in humored defeat. The elf stood on the bar and raised his hands, the others raising their drinks and cheering.

Saadia sauntered back to the young nord and draped her arm around him, saying over the ruckus "You won't have any trouble finding a bed tonight." The revelers cheered again, the elf collapsing with drunken laughter and the nord making a _very_ surprised face and smiling widely. The older nord warrior by the fire just chuckled and finished his drink.

Mae didn't know where to begin when she walked in, her collected demeanor and clean robes belaying literally everything about the place.

The elf found his way off the counter and announced that he'd be needing someone to share his new bed with. He spun until his gaze landed on the nord shield maiden sitting in the corner, Uthgerd, also known as Uthgerd the Unbroken. She was not one for drunken flirts. Regardless, the elf was emboldened by victory and drink, and he made his way to the woman who was already prepared to rebuff him.

A few more-than-lewd things were thrown around and before long the two were at blows. The elf suddenly leaned in and stole a kiss. Uthgerd was wide-eyed for only a moment before grabbing him and throwing him over a table. The barflies announced their approval with every ensuing act of violence that followed.

"_What in the hell am I doing in here,"_ Maedelin wondered as she sat down at her own table.

Sinmir began ripping chunks from the roast they'd been preparing and threw them to all who thought they could catch them, some with their mouths. The elf caught one himself before catching a boot to the gut and an uppercut to the chin from the fierce nord he hadn't entirely given up hope on.

It was quite a while before an opening presented itself to Maedelin. Before anyone could beat her to it, she zipped up to the section of bench nearest what looked like the most sober of the warriors she'd seen earlier that day. He was also the biggest, leading her to believe that he was the leader of the outfit. That's how they did things, right?

He noticed her pretty quickly, after she poked him several times. With a smile he asked her name.

"I'm Maedelin, from the temple!" She had to yell over the noise.

"I'm afraid you're not dressed like someone I should be talking to right now, miss!" he yelled back, leaning in, "Find me tomorrow and I'll have an elf for you patch up."

Mae caught sight of the bosmer, who ate a mean shot in the mouth from Uthgerd, and retaliated with a hard tackle at her waist, bringing both of them crashing down. The large nord laughed heartily. Mae yelled "I think you actually _do_ need to be talking to me!"

The warrior looked lost, but still smiled and asked "Did Roki put you up to this? Are you hiding something under those robes?"

Maedelin let the remark go and said "I saw you this afternoon, and I know you need money!" She let him put that together, and then added "I have a job for you."

* * *

"No. No. Absolutely not."

"Sister Danica, this is Varinn, son of Warren." Mae introduced proudly.

"Ma'am," the warrior greeted. Though he was bigger, hardier and more experienced than his comrades, the night's refreshments had taken their toll on his posture and tone. He did his best to remain presentable.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me, Maedelin?" Danica asked.

"It means that this man is a trained professional, learned in the art of combat and weathered by a great many years on the roads of the world. He's acted as guardian for peasants and lords alike, seeing all of them safely across these troubled lands." Mae looked at Varinn, "Isn't that right?"

He paused a bit longer than Mae would have liked before nodding his head. He bumped into Mae, slightly off-balance, and she subtly righted him, still grinning. "_And_, there's _three_ of him."

"Don't tell me…what I _think_ you're about to tell me…" Danica lamented, kneading her brow.

"You said you didn't want me in danger? He'll make sure you're happy." Maedelin said.

"It's all I've been doing for the last thirty-some years, ma'am," Varinn added in hopes of smoothing this all over. Danica just told him not to speak, and he obeyed.

"And how will you go about paying for his esteemed services, if I may ask?" Danica asked, humoring the priestess.

Mae straightened, "Every septim I've got, plus ten for every mile we travel, and another fifty upon completion of the journey."

Danica leaned back in her chair, not believing what she was hearing or seeing. I moment ago she was nearly on agreeable terms with the priestess, and now she was ready to have her barred from the cloth.

"This is something that is important to me," Mae said, "If you won't help me, I'll put it all together myself. And I gave you _plenty_ of chances to agree with me."

Danica sighed into her hands before collecting herself and asking "You plan to go _alone_, you and your three hired thugs?"

"No, in fact. Brothers Iain and Jenssen have pledged their help on this mission."

"_Jenssen_?" Danica exclaimed in disbelief, "How in all of Nirn did you wrangle _him_ in on this?"

"I asked." Mae said matter-of-factly. "Not everyone is as scared of the world as you are, Sister Danica." She saw the older priestess's look grow even more sour and she went on while she still could "The only reason I'm even making you aware of my intentions now is because I still have so much to thank you for. It's because of you that I believe I can do this, if that's any solace to you. I can only ever thank you for bringing me under Kynareth's wing, but now it's time to let me go. Let me use the things you've taught me, don't just lock me away."

Mae lightly slapped Varinn's chest plate, meaning "Leave." Both turned for the door, Mae looking over her shoulder and saying "If you want to wish me death or misfortune, now's the time. Because I'll still come back, and I'd love another chance to prove you wrong."

"Get out of this temple, Maedelin." Danica managed to say through her teeth. Within moments, she was alone once again in her candlelit chamber.


	6. Chapter 6

Lagara and her fellow orsimer had been cutting the brush for most of the day, taking an alternate path back to her hold so as to avoid any more run-ins with the country's law. She didn't miss the roads any, enjoying the crush of dirt bellow her bare feet. The sun was high and that spared them the frost for now.

They'd hunted some. Yolgrus, ever the leader, had taken up the bow and taken down a deer with it. They'd forgone a fire and ate it raw. None of them could think of anything that had tasted better in that moment. Androg had been eying her while she ate, bringing up the dry blood that still caked sections of her face, and the fresh blood that now graced her mouth and chin. "You're starting to look like and orc," he'd said. To those who didn't know Androg, they'd take it as an insult. Lagara knew it was a word of approval.

She chose to leave the blood there for now. Maybe it would ward off any other possible attackers. _And_ none of them had seen a river to wash in yet.

As the day began to wane and things grew cold again, she sensed they were getting closer to home. The more they stepped, the more she knew the trees, recognized the rocks and glens. They all became less coiled in their approach, and before long they were simply walking.

Yolgrus told the group to stop. Lagara did so behind him, wondering why. She noticed Vorgar turning slightly away, like avoiding an unpleasant scent.

Without warning Yolgrus turned and backhanded the girl, staggering her and sending a white light across her vision and a searing pain across her face. The others said nothing, leaving Lagara to meet her elder's harsh look alone, one hand covering the spot he'd struck, as if to reassure herself that there was still skin there.

His wise, hard eyes ate right into her shocked, innocent ones. Yolgrus had never struck her in her life. And worse yet, it had been a _slap_. Being punched right in the jaw would have been preferable to her. A closed fist casts a blow of respect, one reserved for equals. A slap was derogatory, dismissive, and degrading; it was a punishment meant for a child.

She asked a question with her big, red-swollen eyes. He answered "That is so you will remember." The orc sincerely tried to make his words as intimidating as possible, but another emotion had shown through in his short breath and unsteady tone.

Lagara realized what he meant and found herself looking at the ground, unable to look at him once more. He said "You will find a river and wash yourself before returning to the stronghold. You will not return bearing marks of glory. You will return in shame, and wear the mask of it."

This lit a flame in her. She lowered her hand and looked back up to him, furrowed and scowling, fangs digging into her upper lip, "Do you think…that I won't feel shame?" She stepped forward, "Do you think I will not _remember_!?"

"Three of us are dead _because_ you did not remember!" Yolgrus roared back, much louder than Lagara, the sheer intensity of it pushing her back the step she'd taken. Even Androg twitched noticeably.

Lagara didn't know how to respond, and almost recoiled when Yolgrus added "You forget what it means to put others in danger, you forget what it means to put your _own_ life in danger."

He paused, waiting for her to look at him again. The unspoken order registered, and she obeyed. Yolgrus said "And you forget what it means to be an orc."

The older warrior nodded onward. The other two followed him, leaving her stunned. Androg was slower to do so, showing his pity. Yolgrus' last words were said with his back to her, sounding like "Return when you are accepting of your guilt."

The young orc watched her shadow seep away into the universal shadow of night, and looked for a river.

* * *

Carlo hadn't grasped the mild direness of the situation until the bandit unsheathed his sword. Not even a full mile into the country and he was already to twisted up and rung dry...

"How's about you step off the horse," he said. He didn't sound like a northerner. What kind of outfit was this that the _Imperial_ was giving orders in nord country?

"_How's about you all get the hell out of my way"_ is what Carlo _would_ have said if he were armed, armored and about a hundred pounds heavier. But seeing as he wasn't, he settled on "Um…I'd _really_ rather not."

"Sorry, westerner, times are tough. And I don't remember asking how you felt about it." The bandit pressed.

Carlo took in his welcoming party, all unshaven and draped in furs. There were three of them, which struck him as odd because shakedown crews usually worked in fours. He surmised the fourth guy must have been the hidden one who saw him cross the border from High Rock and signaled _this_ happy lot.

Maybe the khajiit had been in on it? Carlo doubted that, considering he had to barter half his finely-made food the catfolk just so they'd let him sit next to their campfire. These guys looked like they hadn't seen decent food in months. They were probably going to eat his horse when/if they ended up killing him for it.

Carlo wondered if this was a racial thing. He was clearly not of northern descent, and was still wearing his clothing from Hammerfell, and hadn't bothered to change into something else after docking in Wayrest. The desert garb wasn't exactly fitting for the climate of Skyrim, either.

"_Hey_."

Carlo was roused from his thoughts, "Hm?"

"Are you _daydreaming_? _Now_?" the bandit asked, very frustrated, "Get off the damn horse like I told you!"

Carlo looked at the man, "Oh I'm sorry, is this a _robbery_?"

"It may end up being a whole bunch of things if you keep trying my patience, breton." The bandit sneered, absently gyrating his sword. Carlo saw the bulky nord behind him doing some kind of eagerness jig, balancing a warhammer in his hands.

"Well, I apologize, I don't know what I was thinking," Carlo said, keeping his tone light, "I was just trying to think of what you'd do with a single horse in this region. You could eat it, but it wouldn't last long and I don't know anyone who's a lover of horse meat. You could _sell_ it, I suppose. What's the closest city to here?"

"Markarth. I'll point you in that direction soon as you dismount." The bandit said with a smile.

"Any work in Markarth?" Carlo asked sincerely.

The bandit seemed confused as to the civility of the conversation and eventually answered, "Plenty of work. So long as you like breaking rocks, making shit for it, and kissing the Jarl's ass."

"That's terrible." Carlo said with a frown, "You probably didn't even want to do this, but if you're being denied an honest payment for honest living, I can't say I blame you."

"So happy we understand each other. Get off the horse." The bandit ordered.

"You know what, you've inspired me. If I could get all your names, I'll be making a personal trip to the Jarl's keep for a public complaint. I'll see to it all of you are gainfully – and _respectfully_ – employed. No more roadside robbery." Carlo said with gusto, rearing his horse and trotting forward.

The other bandits looked at each other before the leader stepped in front of the horse and put his sword to Carlo's neck. He halted immediately.

"I really do appreciate your concern there, westerner. But 'thing is: I kinda like the roadside robbery gig. I get to be my own boss, and do what I want to whoever I please."

Carlo gulped, leaning back to keep the blade away from him, "Yeah, I can…I can kind of understand that, I suppose…"

The bandit stepped forward, pressing the blade under Carlo's chin, "Why in the just the last fortnight I fucked me an elf, killed a few high-mighty soldiers and made more gold than I know what to do with. Lucky for me, 'cause I do it all just for the sport of it. Unlucky for you, that means I just like to hurt people."

Carlo was being left with fewer and fewer chances to do something. He slowly raised his hands, not wanting to provoke even the slightest twitch in the blade at his neck.

"Well…it sounds like you're a guy who knows what he likes…so I won't get in your way, ah?" Carlo said.

"Aw, you did that already, friend." He tone became very serious, "This is _my_ country, you scrawny bastard. Now unless you want to die in it, you'll hop off that mangy thing, strip, and gimme everything you got."

Carlo acted, but not in a way that would have pleased the bandit. Quickly, he grabbed the sword blade and sent a sudden burst of shock magic along it and into the bandit. He jerked back, yelping and dropping the sword. Carlo kicked him in the face and shouted at his steed, taking off down the road. He barreled through the other two highwaymen, knocking them off their feet.

He was about to look over his shoulder and laugh at their expense, but doing so would have caused him not to see the arrow that was loosed across the road ahead of him, a rope hung behind it. Carlo barely had time to yell anything profane.

He felt the equivalent of a wall slam into his chest and knock the wind out of him, and he whipped back and tumbled off the horse, which galloped away.

Carlo struggled to get the air back in his lungs, coming to one knee and dry heaving. Through the fog of trauma he could see the big nord charging at him, hammer raised.

Carlo waited until just the right moment to lunge. Once the bandit was upon him, Carlo conjured an ethereal bound dagger and drove it into the bandit's chest. It passed through him as if he were butter. The nord lurched and choked, his weapon clattering behind Carlo. The breton saw the second bandit following the first one's lead. Carlo gestured a few times and a bright red rune seared itself into the man's furs.

Carlo kicked the corpse into the other bandit and shielded himself from the ensuing blast, gagging when he heard the wet slap and spray of viscera being strewn about in a fiery plume. Carlo took the initiative and ran at the last bandit, nearly tripping over a roasted stray arm.

The bandit met him head on and the two clashed, the steel-forged blade meeting the shimmering magical edge. Carlo felt the man's strength pressing through his guard. The bandit let go with one hand and reached around the two locked blades with an arm strapped with iron, trapping both of them, and pulled them to the side. He headbutted Carlo in the tempo, then swept his blade across his midsection.

The mage suddenly felt nauseous, and his clothing rapidly became very damp. The bound blade de-materialized. His legs gave out and he fell backward. This wasn't a simple nick, he realized; this was bad.

The bandit put a foot on Carlo's chest and drove the blade downward, right to Carlo's heart. The bleeding breton swayed to the side, the blade missing him by inches, and he pulled a dagger from the bandit's boot. He sliced the back of the bandit's ankle, eliciting a horrible scream from the man and bringing him to his knees, inadvertently mounting Carlo and exacerbating his wound.

In rage and retaliation the bandit punched Carlo across the jaw, nearly knocking him out, but he held on. He felt the dagger leave his hand as his head was cocked to the side again, spitting blood onto the stone road.

The bandit clutched his sword with both hands and swung down at the mage's face. Carlo came to in time to conjure another bound dagger and block the killing blow. The spell, one that usually came without effort to him, nearly winded him as he felt his blood pool around them. The bandit pressed his blade downward, simple leverage and brute strength giving him the upper hand now.

"_Just a little closer…"_ Carlo thought.

Once the steel was nearly brushing Carlo's fuzzed chin, he let go with one hand and grabbed the wrist of the arm that held the sword, holding it tight. With every last reserve of energy and stamina he had, he evaporated the bound dagger and reached up with his now-empty right hand, causing the bandit's sword to fall to his throat, and then re-summoned the blade right at the man's neck.

Just then Carlo heard someone scream "_No_!"

It didn't sound familiar, it didn't sound close, and it didn't exactly sound remorseful, so he decided _"To hell with it"_ and sliced the bandit's throat.

The tension in the man's arm and weapon disappeared and he slumped to the side, blooding pouring from his neck. A good bit of it cascaded onto Carlo's clothing, drawing a groan from him. With a sigh he let his blade shimmer and blink out of existence again.

He rolled over, pushing the dead body off him, and spent a good while doubled over on his knees, both arms crossed over his seeping abdomen. _"_Damn_, that hurts…"_ There was something inherently unsettling about watching your own blood gather bellow you.

His plan was to just wait here a while, regain his strength, and spend the rest of the day casting a healing spell. Even then, he knew he'd have to go on to find assistance from a specialist. This wasn't the kind of injury you just walk off by yourself.

"_New milestone for near-death experiences…"_ he chuckled internally.

He heard footsteps approaching, and just when he thought he was in the clear. He was hating this country more and more with every passing second.

Shakily, he looked up. A figure, humanoid. Hips wide, waist small, hair long. Carlo began to laugh unabashedly, thinking the Aedra had sent an angel down for him.

That angel kicked him in the face with an angry grunt and after shouted "Gods _damn_ you!"

Carlo fell head-over-heels, unconscious.

Above him stood a golden-haired nord wielding a bow, with rope looped around her torso and a quiver at her back. Scaled armor covered her. Bandit paint adorned her face and armor, and beneath it was a look of anger and utter disappointment.

She had an entire plan that had been months in the making, and for the last week she had sensed it reaching its crescendo. And this _idiot_ had just ruined the whole thing.

* * *

**A/N:** _Leave a review if you don't mind, let me know if I'm doing something right, and thanks for reading thus far!_


	7. Chapter 7

The sounds of the world came steadily back to him, starting with the rustle of trees above and the clatter of horseshoes bellow. He didn't remember it being so dark when he was abruptly plunged into unconsciousness but was thankful for it nonetheless. He had been victimized by far too many hangover sunrises and their blistering, judgmental incandescence, and it was nice that for once, he woke after the sun had _set_.

That in mind, Carlo was able to focus fully on his current predicament: He was hovering along the ground, and couldn't move.

A brief glance to his right showed that he was in fact draped across the back of a horse, and not simply floating, which disappointed the mage in a way. A few futile squirms revealed that he had been hog-tied and lashed to the beast. _"Only thing missing is a mouth gag…"_ he thought.

Previous events were what came to him next. He'd been attacked. He had defended himself. He barely made it through alive. And last he remembered, he had been bleeding rather seriously. None of that seemed to be that case now. His gut still ached, and a certain stretch of it still stung, but the _leaking_ seemed to have been stopped.

Since it was fairly obvious that Carlo wasn't the one in command of this animal, he managed to turn is head enough to see the rider's leg. It was leathered and fitted with steel-cuffed boots, and the tails of a cloak of some sort fluttered lightly along it. He recognized the crude markings inked into the metal boots as bandit sigils. He gulped, realizing his situation had most likely _not_ gotten better.

He stretched as much as he could and looked over his shoulder, seeing the beauty of a nord seated on the horse. He was tied up right in front of her, feeling her weight against him. Maybe his situation _had_ gotten better.

She had to have known he was awake, but didn't seem to care enough to show it.

Like most of her kinsman, her face was long and sharp, with hard eyes and a flowing head of flaxen hair. She may have looked like a lady, but she clearly didn't want to carry herself as such. Immediately Carlo saw that there was an air of conviction and ferocity behind her pleasing features.

After a while Carlo realized he was staring, and it became awkward. Ever the conversationalist, he cleared his throat and began with "Miss? Are you _also_ part of the welcoming party?"

She did nothing to indicate she'd even heard him. He continued, straining himself to face her as much as was possible with these binds, "If you played some part in _saving_ me earlier, I'd like to thank you properly with a hand shake. If you were part of the group that _jumped_ me, then I'd like to ask as to what place we're going to and who runs it, so I can double whatever they're paying you and be on my way in the opposite direction."

Still, she was silent. Carlo grew irritated, "Sorry if you don't go by ma'am, but ma'am, _please_: Let me down, or at least sit me up so I can ride like a human being. I've barely been in the country a day and I promise you the _only_ business I have here thus far is with the nearest healer and the nearest tavern, _in that_ _order_, if the gods be good. So will you _please_ just– "

The horse stopped. He made a look of relief, hoping he'd be set free before his legs went numb.

The nord woman stepped down from the horse – or rather, _his_ horse, if he remembered things correctly – and faced him. She looked him right in the eyes, the war paint on the side of her face only magnifying the tension.

"Well then, now that we're face-to-face," Carlo started with a reserved smile, "I'm Carlo Pandevaldi, of High R–"

She slapped him, and _hard_. Growing up as he had, Carlo had been slapped a good number of times by a good number of women, but none before this point had hurt that bad. Once the ringing subsided he reeled his head back around and opened his mouth in a silent scream. He looked at her, perplexed and flustered, "_Malooc's blade_, woman! Does no one _talk_ in this cursed land!?"

"_Why_ are you here?" She asked, getting right in his face, "_Why_ do you have to be here!? _Today_!?"

Carlo didn't entirely understand, leaving him no choice but to answer truthfully, "I was just…on the road! The Hrothgarian Pass is the only way across the border from High Rock."

"I was asking in a _cosmic_ sense, you _dolt_." She spat back. Carlo mumbled "Well _excuse me_ for missing that one…"

"What was that?" She asked threateningly.

"I'm just saying," Carlo started, hoping to save some face, "that I don't understand why someone such as you would be scooping up travelers in the wild."

She frowned, "And what is you mean by 'Someone such as me?'"

"I mean that you look far too groomed, adjusted and well-read to be thrown in with that lot that attacked me. How many miles back was that?" Carlo asked. She seemed reluctant and he added "Level with me, I know you had some hand in that fiasco down the road. Were you one of the people trying to _wear_ my skin or were you trying to _save_ it?"

"Let's get one thing straight," she said sternly, "As much as this may wound you, this is _not_ about you."

"Firstly, that 'wound' comment? Not a funny joke. And second, why did you go through all the trouble of keelhauling me if it'd be all the same to you to just leave me in a ditch somewhere?" Carlo asked.

"Because maybe I'm not as selfish as most of Skyrim's denizens these days, but that doesn't change what I said."

"But you treated me injury."

"_I stopped the bleeding_!" She defended rather sporadically, "If only so you'll keep long enough for me to get back to Markarth."

"So we _are_ going to Makarth?" Carlo asked with renewed interest.

"_I_ am going to Markarth. _You_ are going to Kolskeggr Ridge while I think about what to do with you." she amended.

Carlo looked around in disbelief like he expected to find a jury to back him, a mix of a grin and scowl on his face, "This is _my horse_, you thief! What in the hell do you think gives you the right to just march _me_ around?"

"The Jarl's Justice, westerner. Don't they have that in High Rock?" She asked, showing a scornful sense of humor.

"Justice? Yes, there's plenty. Jarls? Not so much, because my country has _moved on_ since the First Age, _northerner_. And what is this, a citizen's arrest? Don't make me laugh; why don't you just arrest my _horse_, while you're at it–"

She slapped him again, this time while his mouth was open, jacking his jaw. He chewed at a few invisible pebbles before shouting "By the damned Nine, _how_ have you nords been able to stand each other's company long enough to populate a country…!"

The nord woman stepped forward again, crossing her arms, "Listen well, breton. By _involving yourself_ with those brigands–"

"Is that what it's called here? Are you sure it wasn't just a wedding?" Carlo cut in, and was slapped again for it.

The woman finished "you have, in so few words, _completely fucked_ an entire operation, one that was labor intensive and _very_ delicate, and to which _I_ was chief advisor. So you'll forgive me if I reserve my northern hospitality for now. And if you have any interest in seeing your castles or magic shows or whatever it is you do in Bretony, you'll cease with your yapping and say not a word until asked otherwise. Are we clear?"

Carlo held her glare with his own. A pause was shared between them as they let their blood cool.

The woman looked like she was ready to mount up again when he suddenly asked "You were undercover, weren't you?"

She stopped midway through stepping into the saddle, and looked over at him, squinting slightly at the deduction. Carlo said "That's why you took me down when I ran. That's why you didn't want me to kill the bandit." He sounded clipped and low, a serious tone that he didn't usually find himself using. His sly grin didn't return until the _second_ deduction, "If you _are_ working for the Jarl, that means he _needed_ something from those men."

She almost looked reluctant to let out a sigh and said "Yes. Something we can no longer locate because of _you_. Now do you see why I've done by you as I have?"

"No, but I can at least see why you slapped me a few times. Wouldn't be the worst reason on the list, I suppose." He heard her chuckle at that, which surprised him, and he felt it safe to jokingly add "_But_, if you wanted to _add_ to the list…"

He quickly found her right in front of him again and he held off on the rest, "Meaning, if you could let me in on what exactly it is that you were seeking…"

"That's the business of the guardsmen, and no one else." She said, sounding like she'd said it a hundred times before.

Carlo snorted, "Sorry, but I'd say it's been made my business. Maybe if you hadn't decked me and tied me to my own horse, but after three slaps and a sword to the gut, I'd say I'm already _in_ the damn _know_." The woman looked away and frowned. Like a slaughterfish smelling blood, Carlo pressed on, "Come on, what did they take? Precious diamonds, family necklace, Da's first tankard, what? Or did someone get kidnapped? If that's the case, I'm sorry, but this just became the most clichéd chance meeting in all of Nirn."

"Why in all of Nirn would you even care?" She asked, hands on her hips now and eyebrow raised, "I've spent ten minutes with you and I already know your interests probably don't extend past the length of your co–"

"I'll stop you there," Carlo interrupted, "One, because you're too fine of a lady to use that language; and two, because you have me figured all wrong."

"Truly?" She asked with a grin that practically dripped with skepticism.

"Well…maybe _half_-wrong." Carlo said. He paused then said "You probably overheard me saying something about looking for work. I can't think of a better example of something falling into my lap. Except…when something literally _does_ fall into my lap."

"That better not have been directed at me," she warned.

Carlo rolled his eyes and went on, "What I'm saying is that I can help. I can help _you_ help the _Jarl_, then everyone's happy. You carry out your orders, the Jarl gets his justice, and I'll make enough to set me on my way again."

She shook some stray locks from her face, leaning on one leg, not looking entirely convinced.

Carlo sighed, "I promise you, if I'm enticed, I can elevate my sentiment to encompass the length of a coin."

"Not a huge step up from the length of your cock," she jabbed.

"We're already bonding."

The nord chuckled again, then reverted to her cold glare. She mounted the horse and before long they were galloping down the road again. Carlo was a tad embittered that she had better command of the horse than he had. He waited a few minutes for her to say something to confirm his offer, but nothing came.

"Um… So you'll let me go when we get to Markarth, right?" Carlo asked, sounding nervous.

"I have roughly thirty miles to ride between Kolskeggr and Markarth. That'll give me plenty of time to think about it." She said, meaning she still intended to tie him up somewhere in the wilderness while she knocked heads with her precious Jarl. Carlo could almost hear her grin.

"I hope you know a few good songs, breton." She quipped.

"_I hate this country,"_ Carlo stewed, resting his head against the side of the beast.

* * *

Cazzorda had a fear of water, and it rained that night. It rained like the sky itself felt the need to spite her, birthing unholy sheets of perspiration that were undeterred by any kind of wind or front. It fell heavy and unrestricted, flooding the ditches around them and turning the roadsides into rivers of murk. The grass was rapidly becoming a slogging carpet of churning mud and other displaced, shifting ground. Waterways overflowed, and the mudcrabs had a grand old time with it. Lightning struck the occasional tree, starting a brief brush fire every now and again. What a lovely land this was.

Ri'saad, the wry-eyed conductor of the motley crew of traders Cazz was traveling with, had predicted it early in the morning and his ingenuity was as of yet unopposed. Cazzorda did hate water, but she honestly didn't seem to mind the rain. No one ever drowned in the rain. Slaughterfish couldn't swim in the rain. But still, no one enjoys being caught in a rush of stinging wet and icy cold, and of course her phobia made her partial to dryness. So for now she sat in the thick, durable hut that she shared with another khajiit, an aspiring merchant by the name of Shennis. He hailed directly from Elsweyr and thus had the dry, slurred accent, almost as thick as the gray leopard pattern that graced his coat. He was away at the moment, most likely conversing with his mentor.

In the wake of the storm, the path to the main gate of Riften had become a deathtrap for coaches and carriages, and one was unlucky enough to trot through what at first glance had been a mere puddle, but had proven to be a significantly sized pit in the road. The cart had come crashing violently down, the wooden construction breaking apart at the impact, the horse's legs scrambling for purchase along with its driver. The khajiit had heard it from the comfort of their camp and had made it to the wreck before the guards had left their barracks in the belly of the city walls. Shennis, Khayla, Ri'saad's assistant Atahbah, Ma'randru-ja and Cazzorda had been ready to assist and did their best to pull the driver and his companions from the remains of the cart and were discussing how to raise the steed when the guards intervened and shooed the catfolk away from what _they_ saw as a perfect opportunity for a robbery. The caravaners obliged, and Cazzorda was not sure what to think when Ri'saad revealed several items of jewelry that had not been in his pocket when the coach arrived. She didn't intend to confront him, and some part of her was trying to pull her back to the wreck to fish for something left behind, some part of her that yearned for it. She bit it back and ducked inside her hut before she was soaked to the bone.

She made sure Shennis wasn't there and did her best not to make a show of shaking herself dry. It felt so barbaric, but she endured it and changed into a loose short gown, which was not too fitting for the weather and did little to warm her. She pilfering through Shennis' belongings and slipped into his fur boots, placing each item back in its prior spot. _"Much better,"_ she thought, snuggling in her cocoon of furs and blankets.

For the first time that day she felt at ease. The rain outside was torrential but in here it couldn't touch her. She felt invulnerable in her little shell.

She lay on her side and tried to sort out her options. She could stay with these nomads until disease or bandits or simple depression sowed her end, or she could do her best to find employment somewhere, or – and this was a long shot – save up enough to pay her way into Elsweyr, despite having never set foot there before. For some reason, that place seemed so much more friendly after realizing how little there was for her here.

"_Such morbid thoughts,"_ she told herself, stroking her brow, _"Is there nothing else on your mind?"_

She heard the drapes to the hut brush aside and Shennis' figure hastily stumbled in, the hostile sounds of the weather temporarily flooding into the confined space. _"Well, it wouldn't be him,"_ she thought, but was thankful for the distraction. She didn't _dis__like_Shennis, despite all feelings that tried to steer her to the contrary; he was an honest worker, considerate, and always heard her out when she needed to vent. But still, as far as she was concerned, he was a fast friend – a close associate at best – although Shennis seemed to think deeper than that.

It was mostly her fault for this misconception. On a festive night too far back to remember now, when Ri'saad had called for a celebration in honor of a successful day of trading (over ten-thousand septims made in one afternoon), she and Shennis had both downed her first round of skooma, capping it off with a line of what they called moon sugar. She scarcely remembered the rest of the night, although her unlikely bedmate assured her she had performed "admirably." Although she was no stranger to intimacy, she preferred to remember those that she went under the covers with. Shennis was not really one of those people.

"Ri'saad tells this one the rain will let up at morn," he said as he shed his tunic and gloves in favor of his own black sleeping robes. She didn't face him and hummed in acknowledgment.

There was a pause followed by some more focused ruffling of the khajiit's belongings.

"Where are Shennis' boots?" he asked.

When Cazzorda sensed that his eyes were on her she pulled the bedding away from her feet for a moment and quickly covered them again, not wanting to say or do anything that he would interpret as flirting. She was weary from a day's worth of work and travel and she wanted nothing more at the moment than to forget all that had transpired today. But regardless of her silent pleas for solitude, she eventually felt the blankets being pulled away again, only much more slowly. The fur boots, having already warmed her, were pulled from her feet, which recoiled.

Then she felt his hands on her, moving slowly up her legs, which were skinny and sore. His claws playfully scrapped against her tender skin and silk-smooth fur while his fingertips dragged gently against them, his thumb swirling against her tense muscles. He said nothing, and her eyes clenched shut and she fought against the swelling urge for release nagging at her in the back of her mind.

A sigh escaped her and Shennis took that as an invitation to go further, although whether he was right or wrong was a mystery to her. He left her legs and moved up behind her so his husky breath was beating on her neck. The motion sent ripples through her, her fur standing on end. She pressed her face into the pillow as a hand stroked along her neck and then delved into her gown, finding purchase over one of her breasts. Before she could even protest she felt the warm presence of his other hand delicately lifting her skirt, tickling her sensitive thighs with cold fingertips, and starting to prod further up.

It took every ounce of will she had to not let a single sound escape her, and to keep herself from wanting more. Even as he toyed with her and caressed her, she managed to shrug him away. He made a childish noise, like an infant being pried from his favorite plaything, and persisted. She slapped lazily at his hand between her legs, "Knock it off…"

Shennis' motions ceased and Cazzorda could sense his disappointment mixed with an air of frustration, "Oh, so repressed. This one apologizes for being thoughtful." He made a show of rolling over and sulking under the covers, being one for theatrics if nothing else.

"And I'm sorry every woman you bed can't be drunk," she retorted with a smirk.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk…" was his only response.

Cazzorda quelled her inner deviant, which berated her still for neglecting the perfect opportunity to loosen up. Her choice to abstain kept her sharp, or at least that's what she told herself.

Sleep didn't come easy to her. She tossed and turned, only adding to the point Shennis had been trying to make, but somewhere in the motion, she drifted into slumber.

* * *

**A/N:** _I know things are moving a bit slowly, but it's all going somewhere, trust me. Let me know what you think._


	8. Chapter 8

Caliir both expected and lamented the bucket of water that was dumped onto his face. He was fairly sure he deserved it, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

He blinked his eyes clear and shook his face dry, pushing his now-damp bangs aside. "Ugh… Good morning…"

"To all but a few, it seems," Hulda remarked, "You were absolutely _detestable_ last night, if you cared to know."

Cal looked around, "You mean this _isn't_ the room I rented?"

Hulda emptied the rest of the bucket on him, dropped it in the mud and went to the inn's back door. Caliir sat up and spit a few times, a sullenly complacent look on his face.

"Hey, I remember paying for a _room_." Cal stated, trying to stand but slipping onto his side.

"Indeed you did, and one was given to you." Hulda said, turning to stand in the doorway, "And I reserve the right to _remove_ you from the room if you make too much of a fracas. And when Sinmir is complaining about it, it _is_ too much of a fracas."

"Well I apologize; she seemed like such a quiet girl…" Cal muttered, referring to the red-haired woman who'd accompanied him to bed the previous night. He wished he could remember anything that happened after.

Hulda picked up the bucket and threw it at him. "You damned sellswords are all alike…"

"Do I at least get my gold back?" Cal asked almost desperately.

"Do I get my _furniture_ and _glasses_ and _tables_ back, elf?" Hulda asked pointedly. Cal made the connection and she just nodded, and went inside.

A scattering of pigs were poking around in the dirt of the pen, the sounds they made being only slightly less dignified than the ones Caliir made himself. The elf pushed a few piglets away from him as he let his senses settle and recover. Most people from Valenwood didn't have a very high tolerance for drink, especially not the nord brews, and _especially_ if one took in as much as Cal tended to after a mostly-successful quest.

He let one of the hogs near him and used it to stand himself up before lightly kicking it on its way. The contents of his stomach wasted no time in exacting their vengeance and before long he was doubled over and heaving.

The elf managed to get most of it out before his much more sobered compatriots arrived to gawk and guffaw. Varinn rolled his eyes, announcing "The great Caliir Coldsting…"

Roki knelt down and scratched the ears of a pig, feeding it a carrot. Cal chuckled as he straightened, remembering that the nord mage had grown up on a farm and was more given to animals than most.

"You look like days-old _shit_, friend," Roki gave with a grin.

"Shove it, blondey, I _bought_ a room." Cal defended.

"Indeed, and you were thrown _out_ of that room." Roki said.

Varinn crossed his arms, "C'mon, up-up, elf. Today we have business."

Cal looked at him crossly, still fighting for balance, "We had business yesterday, dammit."

"We did, and business is still good." Varinn said with a nod, "Nobody asked you to take a nose dive to the bottom of a bottle."

Cal was crossing his arms now, "Maybe I'd drown my sorrows more moderately if we'd been paid for the work we did." Cal turned to show the stains from his newest wound, "This is one-hundred and fifty gold, right here. Is this new job going to be another act of charity?"

"Guard's work, actually," Roki corrected, "A pay-per-mile kind of arrangement, and we're talking a _lot_ of miles. And it's for the Priests of Kynareth, if that's any consolation."

"And they _are_ waiting for us, so we'd best be getting things moving," Varinn suggested, turning to leave. Cal nearly tripped over a pig doing the same.

Roki spied the discarded bucket and got down to inspect it. He sniffed it and broke into a devilish grin. He looked to Cal, "She didn't dump this on you, did she?"

"Why?" the elf asked.

Roki stood and left the pen, "No reason."

* * *

Lagara flung herself at her opponent, sword in hand, war cry soaring on the wind. Ghorbash blocked the blow but the orc girl kept coming, hacking and slashing, spinning and leaping. She had all the viciousness of ten orsimer, but none of the technical skill. Strength was useless when expelled improperly. This became obvious when Ghorbash drove a knee into Lagara's unguarded abdomen and laid her out with a simple trip. She rolled over to see a sword at her throat. She was slapped with the flat of the blade.

"Up. Again." Ghorbash ordered.

She did as he instructed, and came at him with a different pace, but still making the same mistakes. Instead of countering as he had been for the last hour or so, Ghorbash parried and launched a savage offensive of his own. It was not done out of anger or frustration but rather to prove a point. He came at her with rage, with hate, with the intent to cause pain, but didn't drown his mind in it. His attacks came differently than hers; they were directed and swung with precision and purpose. It was like a brutal dance.

Needless to say, she didn't last long. She rapidly became overwhelmed and her guard broke down. Ghorbash's blade flowed around hers, and one more swing put it right at her chest. The killing speed was halted only centimeters from her flesh.

Most orcs would have let the steel fly onward – have her learn how to deal with a wound the old-fashion way – but Ghorbash's blade wouldn't have been the first to do so today, and enough edges had drank from the girl for now. She didn't need any more scars.

Blood Price found everyone young. The offenses ranged from petty to dire, but no orc sees age ten without shedding some blood for Malacath. Ghorbash had been one of the troublemakers in his brood years ago, and had become very acquainted with the sight of his own blood.

That said, Lagara's payment had been very difficult, both to endure and to observe. This was not a common sentiment when concerning Blood Price.

Lagara had returned in the night, sometime after Yolgrus, Androg and Vorgar. The three men said almost nothing of the young woman, only that she was "pining for atonement" in the wilderness. Only a few of those living in the stronghold truly knew what those words meant. Lagara walked through the front gates soon after the news had been relayed to Chief Nagrub. Action was very swift.

Three dead, all on her. Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be portrayed. In that capacity, she was to receive punishment. Yolgrus the Nomad, the one who'd given the news and suggested the ritual, was also the most apprehensive when it began. No teacher enjoyed passing reprisal to their students.

They'd knelt her down and stripped her bare before the whole tribe. The weather didn't do her exposed flesh any favors. Bruises and abrasions were already present. Murbul, the resident alchemist and soothsayer, had muttered something sounding like "We should _treat_ the wounds before inflicting new ones…" She was a wise old orc maiden, and had reached the age where she could look past the supposed glory of suffering.

Ghorbash had admired that Lagara, although freezing, ashamed and clearly very scared, did little to convey any of that. Her shoulders and chest quivered in the wind, but the rest of her was like a great mountain. It was the look in her eyes that struck them the most; the conviction and resilience was so purely conveyed that a few members of stronghold wondered how such a "good orc" could make such a foolish, deadly mistake. Her equally measured age and inexperience didn't make the ritual any easier. She would end up needing the strength Ghorbash saw in her.

With a specially forged dagger, Chief Nagrub slowly and steadily dragged steel along Lagara's flesh. Two long deep cuts above her breasts, and six down her stomach. The rich redness flowed as quickly as one would expect, contrasting with her olive skin. Within seconds the front of her was almost completely repainted. The girl's shivering intensified for only a moment before she somehow found a way within herself to lock the pain away and maintain composure.

Once she'd been bled from the front, the side of her that would face the Chieftain and their lord Malacath, Nagrub passed the dagger to the three orcs who'd rescued Lagara. The first to draw payment was Androg, who was noticeably hesitant to use the blade but was also aware of the significance of the ritual. He dragged the dagger down Lagara's back from shoulder to waist, down the side of her that had been turned to the tribe. Vorgar made a similar cut from the opposite shoulder down. The last to take the blade was Yolgrus, who knelt down behind the girl and put a hand on her shoulder. Despite having the most resolve of the three, he found the deed to be the hardest. With a sigh he finished the act with one final long cut down the center of her back.

It went without saying that the blood had been plentiful, enough for the Chieftain, enough for the tribe, and hopefully enough for Malacath.

The rest was all part of the typical blur; Nagrub lead them in a few words of worship, and after they were sent back to their routines, Ghorbash being one of the first to excuse himself.

Lagara was left to kneel in the mud and pooling of her blood for a while. Once she was sure everyone was away from her, she let the emotion free. She found it hard to even muster tears, and simply hung her head and shuddered violently. Her wounds still oozed like sap from a tree.

Eventually Murbul knelt at her side and gently draped a fur blanket around her. The old orc held her, saying that it was over and she had done well.

None of what had happened meant that Lagara would be granted a free pass for the next few days; they were orcs, and enduring is what they did. Lagara had sought Ghorbash out for training, and that meant he wouldn't be holding back. Even as he saw her scars break open with each gyration and thrust, he knew the last thing she wanted was for him to go easy on her.

A few times Ghorbash disarmed her. A handful of times he grappled and threw her to the ground. And countless times he simply out-dueled her, which seemed to be what angered her most. He instructed her to the best of his ability, but Ghorbash was starting to think that Lagara was simply too given to her own rage at the moment. She was angry; angry at the Imperials, angry at Yolgrus, angry at herself.

When the girl had expelled the last of her strength she retired to the wall. This time of the night the aurora was clearest. From what she remembered of her mother, it was these same colors that she'd been looking up at when she named her, years and years ago. This was the only time she was able to feel that connection now; her mother, one of Nagrub's wives, had died during childbirth. Lagara had been the last of her children. Her sisters were grown and married off, and now she was to await the same opportunity. These moats of light and stars were the only thing that felt like family anymore.

Except for Yolgrus. Yolgrus was not a typical orsimer. Where most reserved themselves to some army or hill tribe, he chose to walk the lands of Tamriel and become a learned nomad. He had seen a great many things, been to so many wondrous places. He made the rounds in Skyrim, staying with each of the strongholds for several days and assisting with hunting, mining, farming and general counsel to the Chiefs.

It were his tales that fed the lust for adventure that Lagara held seemingly from birth, and had most recently been her undoing. And now, they were what kindled her rage.

Why should she be any different than he? She was an _orc_, a daughter of the great Chief of Dushnikh Yal. Yet she was condemned to a sad circle in the mists of the Reach. It was only because of Yolgrus that she even knew what the Reach was called. And Yolgrus was the one who had played a hand in scolding and damning her, all just for acting on the sense of wonder he himself had instilled in her.

The young orc laid back slowly, her body still reminding her of the pain. It was a strange feeling, having looked down and seen so much red and knowing it had come from her. She didn't think the cuts would ever truly heal.

She absently ran her fingers over her scars and let the night sky dominate her vision once more.

* * *

Maedelin rounded up everyone – meaning Iain and Jenssen – at high noon in the square by the Gildergreen. Jenssen was in high spirits. Iain…not so much. Maedelin did her best to portray the impending excursion as an exciting, worthwhile experience. They were about to see exotic places and meet interesting people! She didn't know what about that didn't sound good to him.

"It's the interesting people that tend to rip you limb from limb for fun," Iain had said, to which Maedelin scoffed, but quickly turned to Jenssen for a rebuttal. "The term 'noble savage' exists for a reason, Brother Iain," he'd said, "The orcs will only harm us if we give them reason to. I don't intend to."

Iain hadn't taken well to that answer, "And what part about blood rituals and Daedra worship made you think these were normal, well-adjusted people? What makes you think the 'reasons' you're talking about are in any way obvious, or even _rational_?"

"Nothing. I just assume these things." Jenssen said. This drew a worried look from both Iain _and_ Mae.

If they weren't prepared for the trip emotionally and psychologically, they had definitely prepared physically. They'd all purchased thick winter clothes to wear over their traditional robes, and enough food and medicine to last a month abroad. Secretly, Maedelin hoped to impress at least one of the mercenaries who would be accompanying them with their thriftiness.

Of course, the mercenaries were another point of insecurity for Iain.

"Mae, I'm asking honestly," he said in a hushed voice for some reason, "Can we trust these men you hired?"

"They look like good people" was all she could really say.

"Like the orcs?"

"Don't be an ass, okay?" Maedelin shot, "First you're scared of the people we're trying to help, and _now_ you're scared of the people _protecting us _from the people we're trying to help. Trust me, orcs aside, you'll have plenty of chances to thank them for coming with us." She realized very quickly that those words had the complete opposite effect she was hoping for and quickly added "Because nothing bad will happen, and because we'll have so much spare time, we'll be able to hear all the stories and songs and jokes they'll all have. Right?"

"O-Okay, yeah…" Iain relented, knowing that this battle was lost before it began.

Then it was Jenssen who asked, "Where did you find them?"

"Drinking heavily in the Bannered Mare."

"Oh," he said.

Maedelin looked at him, "I spoke to the least inebriated of the group and he was very civil, a gentleman almost. I'm sure they'll all be perfectly agreeable when we see them."

The healer did understand their concern. Too many times they'd heard tales of sellswords suddenly turning on their employers while on the road, robbing them for all they have (or worse) and making off into the hills. But Mae didn't get that vibe from this group. Sure they were a bit rough around the edges, but there was an earnestness between them that she found comfort in.

The three healers pushed through the afternoon bustle of the Plains District to get to the gates. "Safe travels, priests and priestess" the guard had bid them.

Only when the gates shut behind them did Mae start feeling a bit nervous. A lot of things were going to be against her on this adventure, and she didn't expect any of it to be easy. Skyrim was going through troubled times, with civil war looming and each other the holds taking up arms against one another. And the world as it is was dark, plagued by deceit and unforgiving to those unhardened by its troubles. Maedelin would have to be on her guard always, and make sure to keep her wits about her.

"Brisk today…" Jenssen pondered behind her, rousing her from thought.

"You can still go home," she poked, pulling her rucksack up with a weight-centering shrug.

The mercenaries would be waiting for them by the stables. Maedelin had made a point of it with their leader – Varinn, as it were – to be there on time, but she figured being late would demonstrate some kind of…something to them. Dominance, possibly? Any excuse was better than saying she overslept.

Where Iain was intimidated by the bodyguards, Mae was overly curious. They were a lively, colorful bunch. Having come from a fairly lackluster upbringing in the cloth, she hadn't been permitted to see anything the world had to offer that didn't include temples or writs or scripts or texts or anything else that nearly put her to sleep now. She'd been to battlegrounds, but never seen a swordfight. She thought Argonians were a myth until she was fifteen. Of the twenty-some commonplace languages in the land, she only spoke two, and of those two, only _one_ she spoke well. She hadn't lain with a man until last year when she turned twenty.

And on the other side of the pond were these traveling warriors, all stubble, grit, and steadfast smiles. They and their ilk seemed to come out of a storybook, a _good_ storybook. There was a romance and mysticism in it. She imagined they'd seen the entirety of Tamriel between all four coasts of the Padomiac Ocean. And even if they hadn't, they had still seen more than she could ever hope to, and they wore all of it on their wrists and under their belts like it was nothing.

"Is that them over there?" Iain asked, pointing. Mae pushed him, telling him not to point. It was unbecoming. Jenssen raised an eyebrow at the one who, from here, looked like Varinn, "Big guy."

"I know!" Mae confirmed with a giddy, much-too girlish tone. She brushed her hair aside, a motion that Iain knew was done because of nerves. Mae's hair was barely two inches long, it did not get in the way at all. In fact, her little swiping motion didn't even touch her hairline. Iain knew she was anxious when she brushed her forehead. "No point in keeping them waiting any longer."

"They've been _waiting_? For _us_?" Iain asked, "Great. They'll be in a sour mood from the get-go."

"By Kynareth's grace, will you be calm." Jenssen ordered.

* * *

It was very late when Lagara spied the commotion in the darkness beyond the walls. She shot up, cringing briefly as a few cuts opened slightly along her stomach and back. Adrenalin blocked the stinging pain and she squinted into the woods.

She knew she had seen something. She found herself reaching for a bow and within seconds she had an arrow in hand.

A figure began to mold itself from the darkness. And then another. Lagara thought her tired, strained eyes were playing tricks on her with the figures started to grow. But then she felt the subtle, systematic tremors in the ground and her suspicions were confirmed: Giants.

There was a certain feeling one got when facing down something as powerful and massive as a giant. It was like being on the receiving end of an avalanche; just one hopeless little insect that was soon to be swatted out of existence by a true force of nature.

Orcs never shied away from a good fight, but where bandits and sprigons and spiders would only draw blood and take lives, giants were capable of destroying their livelihood. A single one of them could lay waste to the entire stronghold. And both of them seemed to be coming this way.

Lagara was about to warn the Chieftain when a new figure appeared. It was small, no taller than an ordinary man. And surprisingly, it moved among the giants without any hint of concern.

Lagara watched, entranced, as one of the giants made some sort of challenging gesture and swung down at the man. She wanted to look away but found herself incapable of doing so. The club would drop like lightning, and in an instant this mystery figure would be but a smear in the grass. She didn't want to see another person die.

Only, this man suddenly moved with a swiftness that rivaled lightning. He leapt like a living corkscrew and twirled over the mighty bludgeon as it slammed into the dirt. She saw the unmistakable gesture of weapons being drawn. The figure ran up the giant's arm as if it were a staircase and kicked off its bicep, and buried two blades into the giant's chest. Stepping onto its shoulder with one foot, the man ended its life with a scissoring slash from two blades across the throat, and the massive beast went limp.

Blood cascaded from the creature's now-gaping neck in a small torrent, pattering into the grass like rain. The man looked to the second giant and quickly jumped off the crumpling body of his most recent kill and over the head of the other giant. When he landed he spun on his heel, and suddenly the second giant lost the ability to stand and it dropped to its knees, clutching its leg with one hand and letting out a guttural, agonizing howl. Lagara twitched at this, realizing that this man had cut out its heels in one fluid motion.

The dark figure climbed up onto the shoulders on the crippled behemoth and, with no degree of ceremony or hesitation, drove his two blades down into the creature's neck.

Lagara was speechless, breathless and stunned. Never had she seen such a cold display of death-dealing, never seen the ability to kill executed in such an…_efficient_ fashion. And even though such feats would be impressive against men and mer, to do so again a _giant_… Lagara didn't know what to think.

This led her to draw her bow when the dark figure began to approach the walls of her home.

By now he had removed the heads of the giants and held them aloofly in one hand by their beards. The orc kept her arrowhead trained on him every step of the way. She wondered if she could loose one fast enough to hit him. She wondered if every step he took was one too far, and she considered ending his life right there, if she was even capable of doing so.

The man stopped, his unseen eyes locking with hers. Gulping, she gestured to a wooden pole outside the stronghold gates and ordered with as much hardiness as she could currently muster "Approach the post."

He did so. Lagara lit her bolt with a jar of pitch and shot a flaming arrow into the post outside, and a small flame shot up, illuminating the man's face.

From here she could only see the most basic features. Black hair, curly and stretching past his ears. Neglected stubble clung to his face, thicker on the lip and chin. She couldn't tell what race he belonged to, but it had to be either breton or Imperial.

What stood out were the eyes. A slightly prominent brow cast a shadow over a bit of them and they sat deeper in the sockets than most, but what she could see was a piercing gaze, like that of an owl. There was some kind of ghostly coldness in them, barely complementing the rest of his expression which was flat as the northern seas. But still, these intense eyes were looking at her, and _only_ her. In the dark of night, they could have been the only ones in the world, and she almost felt threatened under that haggard but coiled stare.

Slowly, the man raised the heads of his kills. Lagara did not relax her arm, keeping the arrow drawn.

She didn't know how much time went by until the Chief arrived at her side, saw what she saw, and told her to let the man in. _"The giants have plagued our home for some time. We will welcome this man. For now."_

Even after the gates closed behind him and the troop of orcs escorted the dark warrior inside, Lagara still stood on the watchtower, transfixed on the flaming post, and on the ethereal pair of eyes that, although having moved on, still seemed to hang in the dark bye the fire, glaring right into her very soul.


End file.
